


The Things They Never Said

by thetimegoddessof221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 28,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetimegoddessof221b/pseuds/thetimegoddessof221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been 7 months since the fall and John is getting worse and worse everyday. When Sherlock finally returns home he finds that a cruel twist of fate has once again separated him from his dear Doctor. And there might not be a happy reunion. Rated T for mild language and violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pill

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic so any and all comments are welcome

Former army doctor John Watson walked down Baker Street towards 221, one of his arms loaded with bags of groceries, the other clutching his cane as he leaned on it for support. He limped up to the battered black door and slipped his key into the lock. After a moment it swung open on creaking hinges and allowed him entrance. John proceeded through the door, slamming it shut behind him, and he began to climb the old wooden stairs that he had come to know so well, shifting some of the bags into a more comfortable position as he went. When he arrived at the door to his flat, 221B, he pushed the door open and looked inside hopefully; there was no one else there. He let out a soft sigh, he had expected nothing else of course, but he still held a small sliver of hope that one day, the door would swing open to reveal a familiar slim, dark haired figure inside.

It had been 7 months to the day since 'The Fall', as John liked to call it, and he hadn't been the same since. Ever since Sherlock's death his limp had returned and he had gone back to seeing his therapist frequently. The first couple days had been the hardest. He would sit for hours, talking to no one and try to think of how to continue without Sherlock around. Even now he had a hard time socializing with other people. Every time he would start to talk to someone all he would be able to think about is what Sherlock would have said about a comment they made, or how he would be able to deduce their whole life story at a glance. He couldn't sleep, would barely eat, and only went outside if it was absolutely necessary. He still had most of these problems, although not as severe.

John sighed again as he set the bags down on the kitchen table. It had been cleared of all its scientific equipment and had even been repainted. Mrs. Hudson had put all of Sherlock's belongings away in boxes but John had been unable to make himself throw them away. Somewhere deep down John still held on to that tiny sliver of hope that one day his best friend would return for him and they would run off together in search of yet another ridiculous case to solve.

John proceeded to put away the many groceries he had brought back and noticed that he had forgotten the milk again. _Well_ , he thought, _there was still a little left in the other carton, it should be enough for now_. A thought appeared suddenly in his mind of Sherlock yelling at him to get more milk because they were out again. The memory made him smile; he closed the fridge, hobbled over to his favorite chair and sat down. He gazed out the window, deep in thought. There had been so many things that he had wanted to tell Sherlock. There were so many things that he had wanted to say, but he hadn't said them. John longed to be able to tell him, just once, how much he had meant to him. How much he needed him. How much he loved him. Now Sherlock would never know. He would never know that when John had looked at him he saw not only his best friend, but the love of his life. He would never know that John had loved him ever sense the beginning and that he had only gone out with all of his numerous girlfriends to make him jealous. He would never know that John thought that he was the most beautiful and brilliant man to ever walk this earth. He would never know any of it.

As he sat in the plush cushions of his chair he noticed Mrs. Hudson walk out the door of 221. He knew Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were worried about him, they thought that he was depressed or going insane. They were probably right. John found it hard to enjoy anything in life now, everything reminded him of Sherlock. He had even stopped taking cases; they just brought back too many memories. It's not like he was much of a help anyways. Sherlock had always been the smart one; he was just there to keep him company. I am nothing without him, John thought, he was my other half and without him I am worthless. The more he thought about this the more it made sense, why was he even here? He had no purpose anymore, Sherlock was gone and without him he was nothing. Making up his mind he got up, walked into his bedroom, and searched around in some of the boxes of Sherlock's old things. Finally he found what he was looking for: small white pills with pink spots in a little glass jar. Unknown to Lestrade, Sherlock had kept the pills from the taxi driver case, just in case he ever had need of it. No one but John had ever known that he had kept them. I am nothing without him; he thought sadly, there is no need for me to be here anymore. John unscrewed the cap.


	2. The Return

It was a quarter to three in the morning when Sherlock tiptoed up the stairs into 221B. This was it! He had been waiting for this moment for so long he could hardly even believe it was happening. The day he got to come back to John. He had imagined this moment a thousand different times over the past 7 months and could hardly wait to see his best friend's face again. This is what he had planned: he would sneak into the flat, make a wonderfully delicious breakfast for two and simply wait until John got out of bed and offer him a slice of toast and a nice hot cup of coffee. He would then proceed to tell John everything he hadn't before: how much he missed him, how much he depended on him, and most of all, how much he cared for him. He was finally going to confess his feelings that he has had for John for nearly two years now. I'll just walk up to him, he thought, and just say, 'John Watson, I love you'. It was a perfect plan, simple and straight to the point. He climbed up the last remaining steps and gently pushed open the door. He stepped in and inhaled a deep breath of the flats familiar sent. It was so good to be back. He glanced around and saw that the flat was much cleaner than he had ever seen it before; John must have spent forever trying to tidy it up. He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was plenty of food to make breakfast with and as he started to gather items for waffles, he noticed that something smelled odd. He picked up an almost empty carton of milk, opened it, and sniffed it. It was expired. _How strange_ , Sherlock thought, _John never leaves anything expired in the fridge_. As he continued to look around he noticed some things that he had overlooked in his excitement of returning home. There where little signs everywhere that the flat had been vacant for a number of days: dust was beginning to gather on the desk and table, there was an old cup of half-drunk tea on the counter; everything seemed undisturbed as if it had been there for a while. Something was wrong. Sherlock put the milk carton down and looked down the hallway towards John's bedroom. The door lay slightly ajar and no sound at all was emanating from the pitch black room. If John was asleep he should have been able to hear him snoring. Very cautiously Sherlock approached the ominous room. Something was very, very wrong. He reached out his trembling hand and pushed the door open.

"No," Sherlock whispered. "No, no this can't be."

He fell to the floor as his knees gave out from under him. "No, this cannot be happening."

On the faded carpet in front of Sherlock lay John Watson's lifeless body with a small empty glass bottle lying next to it. Sherlock desperately grabbed John's wrist and checked for a pulse, already knowing what he would find. The hand was cold and stiff and there was no pulse. John was dead. Sherlock dropped his only friend's wrist and it landed on the floor with a dull thud.

"No, John," Sherlock whimpered as he gazed at the only person he had ever loved, his best friend, lying cold and stiff on the floor.

"JOHN! JOHN COME BACK!" Sherlock cried as he shook the dead man's shoulder, tears flowing freely down his face. "DON'T LEAVE ME! You can't do this to me... I need you... Please..."

Sherlock lay draped over his love's body and wept. He could never remember weeping for anyone before now, he had not even cried much as a baby. He had always been like that, indifferent and distant. As a young child he never had any friends. He knew what his classmate called him behind his back, the brainiac, the nerd, the freak. It had never really bothered him. Even then he knew that the only way to protect himself was to distance himself from everyone and anyone, including his own family. Never had he allowed himself to get attached to anyone because he knew that attachment would only lead to pain and heartbreak. But everything changed when he met John. He thought that just this once; he could let himself get attached to someone, to have a friend.

Sherlock wept now, he wept for John, he wept for the only friend he had ever had, the only one who he had ever loved, and the only one who had believed in him until the very end.

"John please. Please come back." He pleaded desperately, sobbing into John's striped jumper.

He laid there and cried, his unanswered pleas echoing down the ominous hallways and through the gloomy, vacant flat.

When he was suddenly blinded by an extremely white bright light. 


	3. The Dream

"AHHHHHH!" Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he clutched at the bed sheets as he scrambled into a sitting position. For a moment he was completely disoriented, where was he? He surveyed the room, it was small and cramped and the only furniture in the room was a small desk tucked in the corner and the bed he was currently sitting on. The whole room had a slightly grubby feel to it, the wallpaper was yellowed and peeling, the carpet was faded and looked as if it could use a good vacuuming, and all the décor seemed dated and cheap. Then it all came rushing back, he was at a hotel and the white light had been the motion sensor lights turning on from him thrashing in bed.

Sherlock was suddenly aware that his whole body was trembling, even though he wasn't cold. He put his head in his hands and was shocked to discover that his face was damp. His whole body was covered in a cold sweat and his normally clean pajamas were crumpled from tossing and turning and soaked in perspiration. Sherlock let out a soft sigh and tried to take deep breaths, John was in no real danger it was only a nightmare.

These nightmares had become a common thing; he had one almost every night now. Sometimes they were about Mrs. Hudson, sometimes Lestrade, but mostly they were about John. This one had been particularly nasty, it had been so realistic. Sherlock had managed to get his breathing under control but there was still a knot of worry in his gut. He dropped his hands from his face and looked over at the phone on the small disheveled looking desk and reached for it. He picked it up and started to dial.

"Mycroft it's me." Sherlock said into the speaker, unable to keep a small tremor from entering his voice. Mycroft had always known that Sherlock had survived, it would have been impossible to hide from him so Sherlock had gone and told him himself, making him promise not to tell anyone else that he was alive. When Mycroft had protested, Sherlock explained that it was for John's, Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's own safety and Mycroft had reluctantly given him his word. He should be able to help with this.

"Sherlock what do you want? It's three in the morning." Mycroft yawned irritably.

"I am perfectly aware of the time Mycroft; I am calling because I need a favor."

"A favor?" Mycroft asked with surprise, "What favor could you possibly need from me at this ungodly hour?"

"A small one, I need you to check on John." Sherlock said through his teeth. He needed to keep his snide remarks to a minimum if he was going to get any help from his infuriating brother.

"And how, do tell, am I to accomplish that?"

"Oh don't give me that Mycroft; I know you have had the whole flat bugged ever sense my… absence."

Sherlock heard him sigh and shift the phone to a more comfortable position, "Nothing gets past you does it?"

"Not a thing." Sherlock agreed, "Now check on John."

The tapping of fingers on a keyboard could be heard as Mycroft started to access the live feed coming from 221B.

"May I inquire-" Mycroft began after a moment.

"No," Sherlock said cutting him off.

"-why you are suddenly checking on John at this hour?" Mycroft continued as if he had not heard Sherlock's interruption. "Three in the morning seems like a strange time to suddenly be so concerned about someone."

"That's none of your business," Sherlock growled at his brother. "Did you pull up the feed yet?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I'm not telling until you explain yourself Sherlock."

Sherlock clenched the phone, nearly crushing it. He could almost see his brother leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Why did he always have to be so infuriating?

When Sherlock remained silent Mycroft said with impatience," I mean it Sherlock. What got you so concerned?"

"Why do you want to know so badly?" The younger snapped back, "It is absolutely none of your business."

"It could be."

"No it really couldn't," Sherlock countered angrily. "Well if you're not going to help-"

"Did you have another nightmare?" Mycroft interjected calmly.

Sherlock stopped in mid-sentence, "How do you know about that?" Sherlock asked his voice dangerously soft.

"There isn't much I don't know Sherlock" He replied smugly. He waited for a snide remark from his little brother, but it didn't come. "I'll take your stunned silence as a yes then."

"Alright yes, that is why I called," Sherlock huffed. "Now tell me what you see on the feed!"

"Fine, let's see… Nothing interesting seems to have happened."

Sherlock let out a small sigh of relief and relaxed some.

"In fact," Mycroft continued, "the only thing he did last night other than get groceries, was to sit in his chair and look exceedingly gloomy." He continued to watch the tape for a moment longer. "Oh and he just went into his room and took a couple of white pills, probably antidepressants, he has been extremely dismal since your absence."

Mycroft paused for a second waiting for the witty remark that was sure to come. When it did not, Mycroft asked, "Sherlock, Sherlock are you still there?"

But Sherlock was already out the door and running down the filthy hotel hallway, he pulled on his coat as he flew past door after door; terrified that he would return home to see John Watson's cold body on the floor. And it would be entirely his fault.


	4. The Meeting

Sherlock sprinted down alleys and side streets, his long coat billowing behind him. He was running faster than he had ever run in his life and his body was starting to protest, his legs burned, his head spun, and even breathing was becoming painful; but he couldn't stop. He would not let his dream become a reality, he would get there in time to save his only friend even if it had meant running around the world twice. So he kept running. Now there were sharp pains in his sides and he had acquired a splitting headache. But he still kept running. Sweat was running down his face and stinging his eyes, and he started seeing black spots. But he still kept running. Suddenly his knee gave out and he was sent flying face first into the concrete. He had been sprinting so fast that at first the concrete didn't even slow him down, he almost seemed too skip across the ground as if he were a flat stone skipping on the surface of a calm lake. Finally gravity seemed to take hold and he crashed into the hard ground. He rolled a few more feet before he finally managed to stop and take a deep breath, only to find that he couldn't seem to make the air go into his lungs. He wheezed and tried again, and this time the air seemed to cooperate, he coughed and sputtered trying to get as much air as possible.

Sherlock lay face down on the pavement and after he had managed to control his breathing he tried to stand up. Pain, his vision went red and he could feel nothing other than the agonizing pain that was emanating from his left leg. Sherlock heard himself scream as if from a distance as he fell back to the concrete. His head hit the unyielding ground with a sickening crunch and his vision was slowly turning from scarlet to black, and he saw something red run across the pavement that looked suspiciously like blood. _No_ , he thought, _no I can't pass out now John needs me_.

Gritting his teeth against the pain Sherlock gradually rolled over so he was lying on his back. Very, very slowly he propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at his leg. It was a mess, his knee was definitely not supposed to bend that way. He groaned in frustration at his own disability, _how are you supposed to get to John now_ , Said a nagging little voice from the back of his head.

"Shut up," he said out loud to no one in particular. _Come on Sherlock, John needs you_ , he thought as he tried to get up one more time, and was rewarded with more unbearable pain. _It doesn't matter anyway_ , said the same nagging voice as he collapsed back onto the concrete, _that tape was already about an hour old when Mycroft showed it to you. Even if you could be there right now you would be too late to save him_. Sherlock started to despair, it probably was too late. He might as well stay here for all the good it would do.

Just as unconsciousness was about to succumb him he thought of something, even if he couldn't save John he wanted to be able to tell him how it was that he was alive, how he had missed him, and how he loved him. If John was going to die, he wanted him to die knowing that he, Sherlock Holmes, loved him with all his heart. With renewed determination and vigor he hoisted himself up and nearly blacked out from the pain. He grabbed the side of the building he had fallen next to and leaned on it for support. He chanced one more glance down at his crippled leg and was sickened to find that some of the bone had pierced the skin. Clenching his teeth he slowly hobbled down the rest of the street and turned the corner onto Bakerstreet.

He was so close, he could do this. He limped down the vacant street and glanced at the windows of his flat. They were dark which made his heart skip ten beats, was his nightmare becoming a reality? Picking up his pace he stumbled up to the door and unlocked it, he hurried inside and staggered up the stairs as fast as his leg would allow. Reaching the door he grasped the doorknob and leaned on it for support and opened the door.

Sherlock nearly fell before he managed to regain his footing and he anxiously scanned the flat. Nothing seemed to be wrong, yes it was unusually clean but it didn't seem to feel abandoned or vacant. He continued to look for anything out of place as he clumsily ripped off his coat and scarf and blindly hobbled into the kitchen. The dishes were done, the sink was free of any suspicious lab equipment, and the counter and table clear of everything except for an empty little glass bottle.

Sherlock's breath caught and his heart stopped. He ran to Johns bedroom, the pain in his leg forgotten, and ripped open the door. There was nothing there, no body, no dying John, everything seemed normal. For once in his life he was glad that there was no dead body in front of him. Sherlock just stood in the doorway in shock for a moment or so when he heard the door to the flat open.

"What a long day."

Sherlock stood stunned as relief flooded through him. He never thought that he was going to hear that voice again and at the moment there was no sound that he would rather have heard.

John limped into his flat and continued to mumble incoherently to himself as he started to walk over to his chair, when he noticed a long black coat and a blue scarf lying abandoned on the floor. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the pieces of clothing that were lying so peacefully on the ground, he would have recognized them anywhere.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John called out tentatively into the silent flat.

Sherlock started at the sound and wanted to desperately run to the doctor's side.

"Sherlock, are you here?" John called out again.

_He sounded so sad_ , Sherlock _thought, but he can't know I'm here_. Snapped out his trance he quickly looked for a pace to hide. John's closet door lay slightly ajar and he quickly clambered into it trying to make as little noise as possible. He wedged himself in between some boxes and noticed that they were full to the brim with all of his old science equipment. Sherlock quietly closed the closet door and enveloped himself in semidarkness.

"Is there someone there?" John asked to the flat. Silence was his only reply. John shrugged and picked up the coat and scarf, if he had learned one thing by living with Sherlock Holmes it was never to make assumptions. It was silly to think that Sherlock was here, he was dead.

John took the coat and scarf into his room and made to go and put them in his closest with all the rest of Sherlock's things. He limped up to the closet door and pulled it open, revealing a very pale, blood stained, and slightly sheepish looking detective.

"Hello John." Sherlock said casually, as if he had only been gone for twenty minutes not 7 months.

John gaped at him, his mind refusing to believe what he was seeing. Sherlock looked even paler than before and he had definitely lost weight, you could almost see his ribs now. He was ragged and filthy and his eyes were rimmed with red as if he had been crying, but that was absurd, Sherlock Holmes never cried, not for anyone. His face was taught and his lips were pressed into a thin line and his dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat and blood, but there was immense joy in his eyes. All of this John noticed in less than a second as he tried to form a coherent word.

"Wha-how-Sherlock?" He managed to stutter out as he promptly fainted.


	5. The Explanation

John slowly opened his eyes and groaned; his whole body felt like it was covered in bruises. As he shifted his weight he found that he was lying on his back in his bed and was propped up on multiple pillows. _How strange_ , he thought, _I don't remember going to bed… In fact I don't remember much of anything before I came home last night._ John struggled to remember as he very slowly tried to sit up.

"Good morning John," Said a strangely familiar voice to the left of his head.

John's head swiveled around to find Sherlock lounging in a chair with his left leg propped up on an ottoman.

"Wh-how-when" John began, when all the memories came flooding back. He had been having a rough day and had returned to the flat expecting to have a nice quiet night in when he had opened his closet only to find a sheepish looking Sherlock Holmes hiding inside.

"Do you often hide in my closet?" He asked skeptically.

"Not usually no," Sherlock smirked. "It's good to see you again." He added quietly after a moment's pause.

"How is it you're alive?!" John practically screamed at him. "I mean it's good to see you too, brilliant in fact, but you were dead!"

"And how did I get in my bed?" He added as an afterthought.

"I put you there. Look, John, I would love to tell you all about it," Sherlock began, his face paling even more, "as soon as you fix me up a bit."

"Oh Jesus," John gasped, finally noticing the bloody bandage wrapped clumsily around the detective's slim leg and the blood that was dripping down the side of his angular cheekbone. "What did you do?"

"I fell." Sherlock responded through his teeth as John awkwardly got out of bed and rushed to Sherlock's side.

"Alright I need to get you into the kitchen. Can you walk?" John asked nervously.

"Yes of course I can." Sherlock snapped sarcastically. "It's only broken."

John smiled to himself. He had even missed his flatmate's snappy comebacks.

"Alright then, let me help you up." He said as he tried to pull Sherlock to his feet as gently as he could.

* * *

"Ouch! Watch it John!" Sherlock exclaimed as John finished the final knot on the bandage around his best friend's knee. John had managed to half-drag half-carry Sherlock into the kitchen and set him down in a chair as gingerly as he could, and was now kneeling next to him tying the final knots on his bandages.

"Right, that should do it." The doctor said as he stepped back to examine his handy work.

"Now," he said expectantly when he was satisfied that the bandages would work, "Where have you been? How are you still alive? And if you were alive this whole time why didn't you come back sooner?" He asked with hurt in his voice.

Sherlock looked up at his love with sad eyes. "John I wanted to come back sooner, I really did."

"Then why didn't you?!" John demanded, his voice rising. "I took that damn pill in an attempt to commit suicide because I was so depressed after you left!"

"I know, John. And I'm so sorry. I really am." Sherlock whispered with tears in his eyes. "You weren't the only one who suffered from it."

Johns voice softened, "I'm sorry Sherlock I didn't mean to yell." How could he possibly stay mad at that face?

"No you have every right to be angry with me. To answer your question John I couldn't come back because it would have put you in terrible danger. Moriarty has those snipers under orders to shoot anyone who I seemed to talk to for more than a few minutes. Coming home would have almost certainly resulted in your, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade's death. I'm sorry."

Comprehension showed on Johns face. "Sherlock its fine, you don't have to keep apologizing. So why did you come back now?"

"I saw that you took that pill and I thought that you were dead."

"You saw me? How did you see me?"

"Mycroft has had the whole flat bugged for months. I called him and asked him to check on you." Sherlock stated sheepishly.

"Good old Mycroft," John smiled. "Thank God you are as clever as you are though, because if that had been the bad pill I would definitely be dead." He said in an attempt to make Sherlock smile.

It worked. "I even manage to save your life when I'm not here."

"How true," John laughed. "Now where have you been this whole time?"

"I have been staying in remote hotels throughout the country for the past 7 months. I would never stay in one for more than two weeks in case I was suddenly recognized."

"And how did you acquire the money to do that?" John asked suspiciously.

"I had some help."

"From who? Mycroft?"

"No"

"Who then?"

"Molly Hooper."

John blinked in surprise. "Molly from the hospital? That Molly?"

"Do we know any other Molly Hoopers John?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

John chose to ignore that last comment and they lapsed into a comfortable silence.

"I really hope this isn't a dream." Sherlock muttered to himself.

John laughed. "Well if it is, I never want to wake up." He replied lovingly.

Sherlock sat in a stunned silence. He gazed at the man sitting across from him for a moment, hardly daring to believe that maybe, just maybe, this amazingly kind and handsome man in front of him returned the feeling he had for him. The idea was so shocking and amazing that it nearly made Sherlock twitch with excitement. Never once had he considered that John, amazing, wonderful, perfect John, actually cared for him, but there had been no mistaking the love that had been in his voice only a moment ago.

"John," Sherlock began nervously. "John, there's something I need to tell you." Damn it his voice was trembling, why did his body have to betray his emotions when he had worked so hard to keep them hidden?

John gazed into Sherlock's sea blue eyes. "Oh, what is it?"

Suddenly Sherlock began to have doubts, which was strange in itself. Sherlock Holmes never doubted anything, not ever. And the origins of his doubts were even more alien to the detective; they were along the lines of: What if John didn't actually have feelings for him and he was just hearing what he wanted to hear? What if John pushed him away in disgust? What if, God forbid, he left him? _No, no I have to do this_ he thought to himself, making a decision, _I've been holding this in for too long, I have to get it out._

"John, I lo-"

And that was as far as he got because at that exact moment, six armed men came crashing through the front door and into the flat.


	6. The Assassins

Six darkly clothed men, each with a different type of lethal weapon in their possession, burst into 221B nearly ripping the door right off its hinges.

John's already overworked mind from Sherlock's sudden reappearance was slow to react. Before he had even fully comprehended what was happening, Sherlock was in his feet and had moved and was standing in a protective stance in front of John. How he was able to move that fast with a broken leg and a near concussion was a mystery to him.

"John stay behind me, whatever you do stay behind me." Sherlock whispered.

Just as John was about to reply about how he didn't need protection, he was a solider, the man who seemed to be the leader of the ominous group pointed his weapon towards them and spoke.

"Get out of the way Mr. Holmes." The mysterious man growled menacingly at them.

"Hold on, you know these people Sherlock?" John asked with surprise.

"Know them, yes." Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes off the men, "Like them, no. These are the criminals that Moriarty hired to assassinate anyone I got close to."

The assassin's eyes narrowed, "Indeed we are. You know we are not here to kill you Mr. Holmes, so step out of the way."

"Never," Sherlock said with determination.

"I'm warning you Mr. Holmes, get out of the way."

"Why, so you can make me watch as you slaughter my best friend? I don't think so."

As Sherlock said this he put his right hand behind his back and opened his fist, hoping that John would understand. In the meantime he needed to keep these maniacs talking.

"No, actually," The assassin smiled. It was not a pleasant smile; it was the kind of smile that people only use when they know that something horrible is about to happen, know exactly what it is, and absolutely love it. It made both Sherlock and John twitch with unease.

"No?" Sherlock asked in surprise.

"No, we have orders to capture this one," the killer motioned with his head in John's direction, "alive."

Sherlock stood stunned for a moment, why had Moriarty given orders to capture John alive?

"And why, do tell, is that?" Sherlock asked. He suppressed a smile as he felt the cool handle of a pistol slip into his waiting palm.

"I'm paid to follow orders, not question them." The killer replied, finally losing his patience. He aimed his gun at Sherlock's chest. "Get out the way Mr. Holmes by the count of five or I'll shoot!"

Sherlock returned the assassin's menacing gaze. "No."

"ONE!" The sinister man yelled.

Sherlock stayed exactly where he was. There was no way that he was about to let this maniac separate him from John again. He would die before he would allow that happen.

"TWO!"

The men all readied their weapons and aimed directly at Sherlock's chest.

"For God's sake Sherlock move." John whispered urgently into his flatmate's ear. The feel of John's breath on the back of his neck sent involuntary shivers down Sherlock's spine.

"Stay behind me." Sherlock whispered back, a warning in his voice.

"THREE!"

"I am not about to let you get shot trying to protect me! You already died for me once and I'm not about to hide behind you like a scared little kid as you do it again!" John whispered angrily.

"Just stay behind me John," Sherlock whispered. If his plan was going to work he needed John to stay out of the way. "I have no plans of dying today."

John's eyebrows went up as Sherlock slowly cocked the gun behind his back, trying to make as little sound as possible.

"FOUR!"

"Alright," Sherlock said in defeat, "I'll move, just don't shoot."

John glanced up at Sherlock, a question in his eyes. The taller gave him a sly wink that said, _just go with it._

The tall threatening man grinned evilly. "I knew you would see sense eventually Mr. Holmes," he stated triumphantly. "Now move."

Sherlock gave John one last glance and stepped quickly to the left while pulling the gun out from behind him in one graceful movement so fast it was almost a blur. Just as quickly and fluidly as the movement before, he aimed the pistol directly at the panel of glass next to where the group of threatening men were standing in shock, and fired. The glass shattered in a shower of sharp shards and the assassin's reflexes took control, jerking him away from the threat.

"John, run!" Sherlock shouted as he bolted for the door. A millisecond later a very dazed looking John followed and began to run after the slim detective. Before he could take more than three strides, however, he felt his leg stiffen and he tripped and was sent flying into the now glass covered carpet. _Damn it_ , he thought to himself as he was sent tumbling toward the ground. In his haste he had forgotten about his limp completely. John felt the air rush out of his lungs when he hit the floor and was left paralyzed and completely helpless on the carpet.

"Sherlock..." John managed to wheeze out.

He felt unfamiliar hands seize the back of his shirt and pull him roughly to his feet. John struggled and was about to let out a yell when a cloth was shoved over his mouth and nose. He couldn't see his attackers and blindly punched where he thought his captive's stomach was and was rewarded with a grunt of pain emanating from behind him. The pressure on his mouth didn't let up, however, and soon he was getting quite dizzy. His vision went blurry and he started to see spots. With the last of his remaining strength, John kicked out at the cabinet full of all the dishes and as his foot connected with the hard wood, there was an immensely loud crash as the fine china fell to the floor and shattered.

Sherlock was halfway down the stairs when he heard the loud crash coming from 221B and he glanced over his shoulder to ask John what it was, only to discover that John was nowhere to be seen. He skidded to a stop and turned around. Where was he? Sherlock ran back up the stairs in a panic, he could have sworn that John had followed him after he fired the shot into the glass.

When he finally reached the flat again he burst inside, prepared to have to fight off six different men at once to get John back, but the flat was empty. The only evidence that the men had been here was the shards of glass and china on the floor and an open window.

Sherlock rushed up to the window and looked outside just in time to see a sleek black car skid around the corner of the street and disappear from sight.


	7. The Torturer

John groaned and slowly opened his eyes, to discover that the only thing he could see was darkness. His initial instinct was to panic and that's exactly what he began to do. Had he gone blind? Where was he? It took a moment for his jumbled mind to process that he was blindfolded and the blackness was just the color if the cloth over his eyes. Relived that he hadn't suddenly gone blind, John tried to see if he was able to move his hands to remove the obstruction from his face. As he expected, his hands were tightly tied behind him. _Alright_ , he thought to himself, _let's try the feet then_. Again, he was not at all surprised to find that his ankles had been firmly tied together. John attempted to sigh and discovered that he had also been gagged and was not able to utter even a sigh of frustration.

So John resorted to the only useful sense left at his disposal at the moment. He leaned backwards some and felt a cold wall press up against his shoulders blades. Moving his hands as much as he could, he found that the floor was as equally hard and cold. This floor was also extremely uncomfortable. John tried to shift his weight some to get into a more comfortable position.

_Might as well try to make myself comfy_ , he thought, _I'm probably going to be here for quite some time._ He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and dozed.

* * *

John was rudely awakened from his peaceful slumber by the sound of a door creaking open on rusty hinges. This sound was followed shortly after by the sound of shoes clacking on a hard floor. Gradually the footsteps got closer and closer to where John sat hunched awkwardly against the wall. After a short amount of time this sound stopped and was replaced by silence. John tilted his head up expectantly and waited to be addressed by this mysterious intruder.

"Doctor Watson, I presume," Said a deep grainy voice emanating from a space somewhere to his left.

"Hmmiff." Was all John was able to say in response with the gag hindering his ability of speech.

"My guess is that you have a few choice words for me." The voice stated knowingly.

John managed to nod his head and waited to see if this stranger would ever actually say anything of importance.

"Now I have brought you here - or rather my employer has - for one reason and one reason only." The voice continued. "If you're even slightly as smart as your reputation suggests, then I'm sure you have already figured out what that reason is."

John nodded again.

"Very good," The voice said emotionlessly. "Then shall we begin?"

John braced himself as he felt the sharp pain of a whip cut into his cheek. He grunted into his gag and felt something warm and wet run down the side of his face.

The cut was followed by a series of hard punches and kicks aimed at his face and legs. John just sat limply and tried not to let his torturer see how much pain he was in. After what felt like an eternity of endless blows, one particularly hard kick landed directly on his nose and he heard and felt the nose crack with a sickening crunch. He then heard his torturer grunt in approval and, seemingly pleased with his work, ceased to hurt John further.

"Now get up, you're coming with me." The deep voice stated forcefully.

John felt rough, callused hands grip his arm and haul him to his feet. His captor then proceeded to drag him across the room and through an open door.

He felt like absolute hell. His whole body hurt (his torturer had left no place unscathed) and it was taking all his willpower not to black out from the pain. He knew from his time spent in the army what was coming next, he had known as soon as he had woken up. He would first be tortured and wounded, then he would be taken to a separate location to be used as a hostage in order to get Sherlock to do some task that his torturer's employer needed, and finally after Sherlock had completed this task (because there was no doubt in his mind that Sherlock would complete it) that this employer would break his promise to let John live and he would be executed. It was a classic terrorist tactic, and was highly effective. If you needed someone to do something, all you had to do was capture someone they cared about, hold them captive, hurt them, and they will do whatever you want them to if you promise their safe return.

Quite suddenly, John was tossed to the ground and he landed face first with thud. He groaned into his gag that now tasted like blood, and rolled onto his back.

"Don't move," Said the same voice as before as he heard a gun being cocked that was, undoubtedly, aimed directly at him.

John obeyed and stayed completely still. It's not like he much energy to move even if could.

"Let's give your little boyfriend a call shall we?" The gravelly voice said with enthusiasm. And at that moment John was sure he was smiling.

And he was right. The owner of the voice had a crooked smile on his face, and he continued to smile this lopsided grin as he put the barrel of the pistol up against John Watson's head and pulled the trigger.


	8. The Message

Sherlock couldn't stop pacing, he had been pacing for the past four hours and his feet were beginning to hurt. He had tried everything he could think of to find where those damn assassins had taken John; he called his entire homeless network, had phoned Lestrade for help, and had looked all over the internet for some miniscule clue, but to no avail. They were good; there was no trace of where they had taken his doctor anywhere. Sherlock had even swallowed his pride and phoned Mycroft for help, but not even he could find any sign of them.

He continued to pace. How did they manage to cover their tracks so well? Usually whenever Sherlock Holmes set his mind on finding someone, there weren't many people who could stop him from doing just that. He was stumped. He admitted it; the great and wonderful Sherlock Holmes was stumped. As he continued his restless pacing he heard a beep come from the open laptop sitting on the kitchen table. Curious, Sherlock cautiously approached the laptop and looked on the screen.

"John!" Sherlock gasped in horror at the image on his screen. John was on the floor of a dark and damp room and he was obviously badly hurt. He had a deep gash on left cheek, it looked like his nose had been broken, and he was bleeding from a variety of scrapes and cuts. His hands and feet were tied together and the skin on his wrists and ankles was rubbed raw and bleeding from the rough ropes. He was also blindfolded and gagged.

Red hot rage rose up in Sherlock, no one hurt his John. Sherlock was so focused on John that he didn't notice the man standing next to John with the gun in his hand until he spoke.

"Let's give your little boyfriend a call shall we?"

Sherlock finally noticed the muscular man who was pointing his pistol directly at John's head. He was tall and tan with numerous scars on his huge biceps and his unkind face that, at the moment, had a crooked and evil-looking smile plastered on it. He had grungy dark hair that was cut in a short buzz cut. He was clearly an army veteran. This was obviously the man who had tortured John and Sherlock decided right then and there that he would kill him for it.

"What have you done to him?!" Sherlock practically screamed at him. "John! John it's me, are you alright?"

John nodded feebly and this earned him another savage kick from his captor. John grunted in pain and Sherlock's temper flared.

"If you lay one more finger on him, I swear that I will personally hunt you down and kill you myself." Sherlock growled menacingly.

The torturer's smile widened a little more as he pushed the barrel of the pistol up against the back of John's head. Sherlock's breath caught, his heart stopped, and he clenched the table as the man put his finger on the trigger and pulled it.

"NO!" Sherlock yelled in fear.

The gun clicked, but did not fire. John visibly jerked away at the sound and then slumped forward in relief when no bullet pierced his skull. Sherlock let out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding and waited for the ex-army man to explain.

The man in question put a new cartridge in the pistol and cocked it again.

"That was a warning Mr. Holmes. This one has bullets in it." He said as he pressed the barrel back up against John's bloodied head. "But I'm sure you had already deduced that."

"I'm also sure that you know exactly what it is I'm about to ask of you." As he said this he looked directly at the camera for the first time. Sherlock shivered, his eyes were such a dark brown they looked black, and there was no compassion anywhere to be seen in them. Sherlock was sure that this man would not hesitate to put that bullet right through Johns head if necessary.

Sherlock nodded numbly. "You want me to track someone down."

"Yes, very impressive." The man said and he lowered the gun slightly. "And as soon as you find him, it would be best if you, ah, disposed of him for us. Bring back the body as proof. Do that and I'll let Doctor Watson here live to see another day."

"But," Sherlock began, "I haven't agreed to do anything for you yet."

The threatening man smiled the same crooked smile. "Your reaction to me firing that blank at Doctor Watson gave me all the confirmation I needed."

Sherlock glared at him. "Yes alright, I'll do your little task. But if John isn't returned perfectly alive I will find you and kill you."

"Slowly and painfully I'm sure."

"As slowly and painfully as possible, rest assured. Now, who is it I'm supposed to be tracking down?"

"I will send his file to your computer. He has been a thorn in our side for quite some time now." John's captor said nonchalantly. "Oh, and it would be best if you made it quick, I can't guaranty this one's" he pointed the weapon back a John's head "safety for too long. I'm sure we'll be hearing from you soon Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, but why me?" Sherlock asked suspiciously. "You could have hired any random criminal to capture and kill this man, why go to all the trouble to kidnap John in order make me do it?"

The man smiled knowingly. "We have reason to believe that you are the only one capable of actually getting close enough to him to accomplish this feat. So long for now Mr. Holmes."

The screen went dark and a message appeared in his email inbox. Sherlock moved the mouse over to the file containing the information on who it was he was supposed to find and kill, and clicked on it. It only had two words on it: Mycroft Holmes.


	9. The Arrest

Mycroft Holmes leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He muted the live feed he had been watching that was coming from 221B and picked up the phone. Why was it that whenever something bad was about to occur his little brother was always right in the middle of it? He dialed the number for Scotland Yard.

"Hello Lestrade." Mycroft said into the speaker.

"Mycroft." Lestrade said in acknowledgement.

"Please send a marginally large police force over to 221B as quickly as possible."

"For what? Has something happened? Did they have another break in?" Lestrade said in exasperation.

"No, nothing like that." Mycroft replied as he rubbed his face. "I'm sending you over to make an arrest."

"What? You want me to arrest John? Because he's the only there at the moment. Mrs. Hudson went out a bit ago, I saw her at the store." Lestrade said. "Are you asking me to arrest her?"

"No, I'm not sending you over there to arrest John or Mrs. Hudson. I'm sending you to arrest Sherlock."

Mycroft heard Lestrade take a sharp intake of breath. "But," Lestrade began cautiously, "Mycroft, Sherlock is dead. He jumped off the roof remember?"

"Yes I remember it perfectly. But-"

"And" Lestrade interrupted "I inspected the body. It was definitely him, DNA matched up and everything."

"Yes but-" Mycroft started.

"And John even watched him jump! He said Sherlock left a note and everything." Lestrade interjected again. "Well, he left a phone call anyway." He corrected. "Still I don't see-"

"WELL MAYBE YOU WOULD SEE IF YOU WOULD JUST LET ME FINISH!" Mycroft yelled as he finally lost his temper. Lestrade stopped in mid-sentence and his mouth hung open in shock. He had never heard Mycroft Holmes lose his temper like that. Whatever it was that Sherlock did must have been really bad.

Mycroft leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk while slowly rubbing his temple; he could feel a headache coming on. "Thank you. Now first things first, Sherlock is not dead. He faked his own death to save John's, Mrs. Hudson's, and your lives."

Mycroft paused for a second, and gathered his thoughts. "Secondly, Sherlock is about to commit a crime and it needs to be stopped before it can occur. And lastly, when you go over to arrest him don't listen to anything he has to say about why he is trying to commit this crime. He will just try to manipulate you."

That last request seemed odd to Lestrade but, not wanting to provoke Mycroft further, he made no comment on it.

"I'll go over there right now." Is all he said instead.

"Good, thank you. And once you have him in custody, please bring him over here. I have some questions for my little brother." Mycroft said irritably.

"Sure. Can I ask what crime it is that Sherlock's trying to commit?" Lestrade asked, his curiosity roused.

"A murder." Mycroft replied softly and he hung up.

Sherlock put his head in his hands as he finally tore his gaze away from the computer screen. Of all the people he had to kill in order to save John why did it have to be Mycroft? Of course, he wasn't particularly fond of his obnoxious older brother, but family is family. His mind whizzed through a thousand different ways he could try to trick John's captors into believing that he had killed Mycroft, but none of his ideas seemed plausible. When suddenly his train of thought was interrupted by a loud crash coming from the first floor, it had sounded like someone had just kicked the door down. Sherlock snatched the pistol that was lying on the table, cocked it, and aimed it at the doorway, prepared for anything.

Or so he thought. He was certainly not prepared for twenty policemen to come charging into his flat with Detective Inspector Lestrade following in their wake.

Sherlock lowered his weapon some in surprise and relief. "The door was open; there was no need to break in." Sherlock stated calmly. "What seems to be the problem Inspector?"

Lestrade just gaped at Sherlock for a moment, hardly believing what he was seeing. He had honestly expected to burst into the flat to find John moping in his chair or Mrs. Hudson cleaning up. He hadn't really believed Mycroft when he had said that Sherlock was back. Lestrade shook his head in an attempt to clear it; he would never understand either of the Holmes brothers.

"Cuff him!" Lestrade shouted at the waiting policemen, finally regaining some of his composure.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him in surprise and lifted his weapon.

"Don't even try." Sherlock said casually as he aimed the weapon directly at Lestrade's heart. When the policemen continued to advance on him, although not as quickly as before, Sherlock rolled his eyes, flustered. "One more step and I will pull this trigger Lestrade. Just let me explain, there is no need for this to get messy."

Lestrade looked suspiciously at Sherlock. Mycroft had warned him not to listen to anything that he had to say and that he would only try to manipulate him. The other policemen stopped their advance on Sherlock and glanced over at Lestrade, waiting for instruction. He gave Sherlock one more suspicious glance and signaled to the other officers to stay where they were.

"Alright fine," Lestrade finally complied, his curiosity finally getting the best of him. "I'll let you explain, just put down the gun."

"With pleasure," Sherlock began as he lowered his weapon. "But would you mind getting these other idiots out of my flat before we talk?"

"Yes, alright fine." The inspector said in exasperation as he waved the other officers out of the cramped flat. This was definitely the same irritating and obnoxious Sherlock he remembered.

Only when the door swung shut behind the last of the extra policemen did Sherlock finally address the Detective Inspector. "Lestrade I need your help."

Lestrade blinked in surprise, this wasn't at all what he had expected.

"Please," Sherlock practically begged when Lestrade didn't respond immediately. "Please I need your help."

"Alright, calm down Sherlock." Lestrade said wearily, he had never seen Sherlock look so desperate and frightened and it put him on edge. "What's gotten into you?"

"It's John, he's been kidnapped and is being held hostage and in order for me to save him I would have to kill Mycroft and I would really rather not so can you help me find a way to get him back because he will die if you don't." Sherlock said in a rush. He paused to catch his breath and suddenly seemed to realize something. "Wait a minute," he said with suspicion, "what did you come over here to arrest me for? I haven't done anything wrong."

When Lestrade refused to answer him Sherlock's eyes widened as he realized who it was that must have sent him.

"Mycroft sent you here to arrest me didn't he?" Sherlock asked, anger starting to creep into his voice. "I bet he was spying on me when I got the call. So he sent you to arrest me for a murder that I haven't even committed!" Sherlock finally lost it, "He sent you and those other damn police officers to arrest me to try to prevent me from attacking him! He knew John was in danger but he still sent you! And he is probably spying on us right now!" He turned in a circle looking for a camera.

Sherlock rounded on Lestrade, "Well?! Am I wrong?!" He screamed at him.

Lestrade took a step back in fear; he had never seen Sherlock this upset before. "No, you're right. Mycroft did send me here to arrest you for a murder that he said you were about to commit."

"And I bet he ordered you to take me to him once you had successfully restrained me?!" Sherlock spat at the shocked and slightly frightened inspector.

"Y-yes."

"Good! Then take me to him!" Sherlock yelled, pushing him out of the way and stomping out the door in rage. "I need to have a nice long chat with my dear brother."


	10. The Shot

Sherlock was so busy thinking of exactly what he was going to say to Mycroft when he got a hold of him that the normally extremely observant detective didn't even notice when Lestrade came creeping up behind him with a gun in his hand.

"I'm really sorry about this Sherlock." He mumbled to under his breath as he lifted his arm and slammed the butt of the pistol into the back of Sherlock's head. The slim detective slumped to the ground without uttering another sound.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Where was he? He did a quick survey of the area: he was sitting in a plush tan colored chair that had obviously been very expensive, there was a mahogany desk directly in front of him with an exclusive laptop perching on top, and the walls were richly decorated with a variety of ordainments such as rare pieces of art and many bookshelves; this room obviously belonged to someone with power and money and that person was obviously-

"Mycroft," Sherlock said out loud just as his older brother opened the door behind him with a click and entered.

"Glad you could join me Sherlock." Mycroft said experimentally, he honestly wasn't sure how his younger brother would react to being knocked out and kidnapped, but he didn't think he would take it mildly.

He was right, Sherlock was outraged. Although at the moment he was determined not to show it. It was taking all his willpower not to reach for the pistol, carefully concealed in the folds of his jacket, and shooting him right then and there.

"How long have I been out?" Sherlock asked reasonably as he slowly tried to inch his hand over to where his pistol was hidden. His progress was soon stopped, however, when he noticed that his hands were handcuffed to the arms of the chair.

"You handcuffed me?" He added in surprise.

"Yes, I had reason to believe that if you were not restrained then you would attempt to assassinate me." Mycroft replied casually as he walked around the occupied chair to sit in the empty one behind the desk. "I see now that my assumption was correct."

Sherlock stopped trying to reach for the gun and instead placed his forearms on the arms of the posh chair. He slowly counted to ten before he trusted himself to speak again, if he was going to help John he needed to keep his cool and not let his annoying brother get the best of him.

"You know why I'm here." Sherlock said, not wasting any time. "John needs my help."

"Yes and your idea of 'help' is trying to assassinate me so that they will fulfill their promise to let John go, a promise that you know they will break. It's no use Sherlock, John is as good as dead." Mycroft stated bluntly. There was no point in trying to be discreet with Sherlock, anything that you tried to say lightly he would only deduce for himself anyway, so why waste time beating around the bush.

"How can you say that?" Sherlock said in a dangerously soft voice. "Don't you care about him at all? He has helped you a numerous amount of times and this is how you repay him?!" Sherlock was practically screaming at this point.

"Of course I cared about him Sherlock," Mycroft said soothingly in an attempt to calm down his traumatized brother. Unfortunately this only seemed to provoke him further.

"Don't talk about him in the past tense like he's already dead Mycroft," Sherlock whispered in warning.

"But," continued Mycroft as if he hadn't heard this last statement, "the point still remains that you tried to kill me and, by doing this, helping the terrorists, I had no choice but to arrest you."

"And what choice did I have?" Sherlock asked desperately, he needed Mycroft to understand that there was no way that he could condemn the only person he had ever loved to die when he could have done something to prevent it. Even if they did break their promise to bring John back safely (which Sherlock knew they would) he would go after the people who did it and kill them or die in the process, that way at least he would die knowing that he had done everything in his power to save his one and only love.

"You could have come to me for help." Mycroft said reasonably.

"But if they found out that I had they would kill him right then and there!" Sherlock stated hopelessly. He slumped back in his chair in defeat. Maybe Mycroft was right, maybe John really was lost forever. Sherlock closed his eyes, why did these things always seem to happen to him? He could see no way around this, if asked for help from Mycroft the terrorists would surely find out and kill John, but he couldn't kill Mycroft because his hands were now cuffed to a chair.

Sherlock snapped his eyes open and sat up suddenly, a horrible thought had just occurred to him: what if they already knew he is here and they thought that he was asking Mycroft for help?

"Sherlock," Mycroft asked cautiously, there was a wild aspect to his brother's eyes that he didn't really like the look of at all. "What is it?"

"Mycroft go to your computer right now." Sherlock said in a slight panic. "Look to see if there is any message in your inbox."

Mycroft nodded, understanding what Sherlock was worried about. He swiftly opened the laptop and logged in. As soon as it was unlocked, a live stream came on the screen, but it was not the stream that he had been watching of 221 earlier. This one showed a dark room with a scuffed floor and grungy concrete walls. Mycroft raised his eyebrows in surprise; it would have taken a genius to hack his computer like this.

"What?" Sherlock asked nervously, noticing the change in Mycroft's attitude. "What do you see?"

Mycroft looked at his bound brother and turned the laptop around. "Do you recognize this room?"

Sherlock paled, this was the same room as before. "Yes. This is the same room; it's the one they tortured John in."

"Yes I thought so." Mycroft said, worried. He walked around the other side of the desk to see what was happening on the screen. "I had rather hoped it wasn't though."

As the older came up behind his brother he noticed how Sherlock was nervously tapping his fingers and had started shaking. _Good God_ , Mycroft thought to himself, _He really has really fallen head over heels for this little army doctor._

Suddenly a man sauntered casually into the frame. This was not just any man; however, this was the very same man as before, the tan and mean army veteran who had tortured John. Mycroft noted how Sherlock stiffened at the sight of him and had increased the rate of the tapping. There was an intense hatred in his eyes that he had never seen before and he was glad Sherlock wasn't glaring at him like that.

"Good evening boys." The sinister man greeted them.

"Where. Is. John?" Sherlock said through his teeth. "What have you done to him?"

The torturer smiled wickedly. "I haven't done anything to him... Yet."

A bloody and bruised John was then thrown into the shot and he landed limply on the hard ground with a thump.

"John..." Sherlock let out in a soft whimper. Mycroft felt his normally indifferent heart break a little for his younger brother. He had never seen him get so attached to someone and it was honestly heartbreaking to see him so desperate and distressed when they were separated.

"So I see that you decided to go your brother for help Sherlock. I have to confess myself slightly disappointed; I had thought you were much cleverer than that." The man said with a sigh as he took out his gun and loaded it. John moved sluggishly on the ground and he let out a small grunt of pain and he managed, with his hands and feet still bound and a gag and blindfolded on his face, to get into a sort of awkward sitting position. This move didn't go unnoticed by his torturer, however, and the villain glanced at John and smirked. He raised his gun up and pointed it at the army doctor.

"He didn't come to me for help." Mycroft began trying to negotiate, "I kidnapped him and took him here for questioning, and it was not his choice."

The veteran looked away from his soon to be victim and glanced at Mycroft. "Oh I know," he smiled cheerfully, "and that probably just got Doctor Watson here killed."

"No don't please," Sherlock begged. "Please I'll do anything you want just don't kill him. Please."

Mycroft was actually alarmed now, he had never heard the emotionless, cynical, Sherlock beg for anything before.

"Please," Sherlock continued. "Please you can kill me instead just leave him alone."

The torturer widened his evil grin even more when he noticed the single tear running down the detective's face. He cocked the gun.

"No please-" Sherlock started in despair.

"I think you should be able to see the look on his face when he dies don't you?" The ruthless villain asked Sherlock venomously. "I want you to see the light go out of his eyes." He ripped off John's blindfold and the army doctor blinked at the unexpected brightness.

"Please take me instead!" Sherlock was now pulling against the cuffs that prevented him from going closer to his love, there were now tears streaming down his face.

John's eyes locked with his and he could clearly see his pain and fear in those ocean sea blue eyes. Sherlock tried to convey all the love and tenderness that he felt for him. He tried to say everything that he hadn't before with only a gaze and John seemed to understand, because Sherlock could see these same feelings reflected in his eyes.

"Any last words you want to say to him Sherlock?" The killer asked evilly.

"I'm so sorry John." Sherlock whispered to his best friend and only love. "You have always been there for me and you have saved me in more ways than one. And just when you needed me most I wasn't there for you. I hope you can forgive me."

A single year rolled down Johns face as he nodded once, he seemed to be saying _there is nothing to be sorry about._ He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock as the man raised the weapon again, and fired the gun.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away, not able to watch, as he heard John scream in agony.


	11. The Girl

Sherlock kept his eyes squeezed shut as John's bloodcurdling scream ripped through his ears. Fresh tears stained his pale cheeks and he was quivering. _This is all my fault,_ he thought, _John is dead because of me._ He started crying in earnest now, sobs racked his body and he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. But there was nothing that would comfort him now, it was all his fault. If only he had been a little more clever. John's scream continued to ring in his ears even after it had stopped and it cut him to his core. _All my fault, all my fault._

Suddenly Sherlock's eyes flew open, a thought had just occurred to him: if John was screaming then he couldn't be dead. He frantically fixed his gaze back on the screen, but the stream had already been terminated. Desperate, Sherlock checked Mycroft's inbox and saw a new message. He clicked on it and waited impatiently for it to load. After what seemed like an eternity the message had finally appeared.

 _Come turn yourself over to us Sherlock, or I'll aim for the head next time._ Is all it said.

* * *

John opened his eyes; he seemed to be floating in a huge black cloud. All around him there were little pulses of light, some red, some blue, some were every color of the rainbow, and some were just white, but they all winked out of existence as soon as he focused on them and came back once he looked away. He started to panic, where was he, what was this place, how did he get here, and how could he get back to Sherlock?

He sighed and examined his surroundings further. There was no up, down, left, right, forward, or backward in this mystical place and it was both disorienting and, surprisingly, extremely peaceful. Against his will John felt himself start to relax. Everything about this place had a peaceful vibe to it, from the mysterious colorful whips of light to the vast emptiness of it all. And, if he listened really hard, he could even make out the soothing sound of music playing somewhere in the distance. Very, very slowly John relaxed, he felt his concerns melt away, one by one. He let out a sigh of content and went completely limp in the dark mist that surrounded him. What was it that he had been so worried about? Groggily he tried to remember his concerns. There had been something about a man, and a gun, and someone named Sherlock. _Hmmmm... Sherlock._ He rolled the name around in his astonishingly vacant mind. The name sounded so familiar but what did it have to do with him being concerned? _Ah, never mind,_ he thought after a moment of concentration, _it doesn't matter now_. He let the name slip from his brain and he lapsed into a comfortable doze.

John felt at peace. He continuously came in and out of sleep and was feeling fresh and rejuvenated. He had never felt this good in his life. Every time he awoke from his doze he would try to remember what it had been that was troubling him so, and every time he could remember less and less. Now he could only remember one thing: Sherlock. That one name was the only thing still left and he clung onto it, he felt that if he forgot that name then he would forget himself in this mysterious mist.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. The name kept circulating in his mind. The mist seemed to be beckoning to him, _just let go_ it seemed to say, _let go and forget._ But he refused to give in. He struggled desperately to remember who Sherlock was, remembering was the key. The mist no longer seemed welcoming and peaceful, now it held a sinister and evil feel and it almost seemed to constrict around him. He struggled for breath and frantically tried to remember: who was Sherlock? The darkness pressed against him and the flashes of light burned his eyes. He thrashed and pulled at empty air, trying to break free of the gas that was constricting him. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock? He racked his brain frantically reaching for just one tiny scrap of information that would help him remember. The black mist was crushing him, he cried out as his right leg suddenly flared with pain. WHO WAS SHERLOCK? Then it all clicked. All the memories of Sherlock came rushing back. All the times they spent together, running after some criminal, solving crimes, watching some stupid program on the tele, even that time they had played Cluedo. All of these memories and more came flooding back to him and he was filled with an immense joy. This was the man he loved. The mist stopped its intolerable pressure and he could breathe again. He took a deep gulp of air and tried to regain his breath. Now he remembered, he was John Hamish Watson and Sherlock Holmes was the man of his dreams.

The pain in his leg gave a particularly horrific stab and his eyes opened with a start. There was no mist, no flashing lights, and he remembered everything. There was a woman kneeling next to him pressing a cold cloth to his forehead.

"Good you're awake." She said to him as she stood up and brushed off her jeans.

John tried to sit up and found that he was strapped to the hard, uncomfortable slab he was currently lying on top of. He tried to move his feet and was rewarded with a stab of pain from his right leg so excruciating it almost made him black out again.

"Don't bother." The woman said to him. "Those straps are stronger than anything."

John turned his head to the right and looked up at the mysterious woman. The first thing he noticed about her was her eyes; they were a vibrant blue that contrasted heavily with her dark brown hair; hair that was currently pulled back and held in place by a strip of gray fabric, the rest hung down in smooth waves that collected at her shoulders. Her clothes looked dirty and crumpled and her t-shirt was a plain mossy green, but somehow she managed to make this dismal outfit look stylish. She seemed to be around the age of twenty-five.

"Who are you?" John asked after he noticed his gag had been removed, his voice was hoarse from disuse.

"No one of conscience." She responded as she turned away, taking the cloth with her. She walked over to a small counter with a built-in sink in it and a pile of strips of cloth on one side. "But you can call me Sylvia."

"Alright then Sylvia," John began hesitantly, "where am I and what's going on?"

Sylvia turned back around with a new cloth held in her hands. "Do you really think I'm about to tell you that?" She asked him with a smirk as she dabbed his forehead with the cool cloth.

"No but it was worth a try." John said with a shrug. "Can you at least tell me why you are putting a cold cloth on my forehead?"

She glanced down at him in amusement. "You are extremely sick and are burning up. Isn't this what most people do when they are trying to break a fever?" She asked sarcastically. "I honestly didn't think you we're going to wake back up after you blacked out. At the beginning you were thrashing around a lot but you seemed to relax after a couple of hours. That was what worried me, at least when you were thrashing about we knew you were still alive. Your breathing had slowed to an extremely slow pace and your eyelids barely seemed to flutter when the cloth was put to your head. But when I accidentally bumped the table by your leg you finally opened your eyes." She paused for a second. "Did that answer your question?"

John blinked at her. "Yes, I suppose it did."

"But?" She asked expectantly.

"But, what happened to my leg?" John asked nervously. At the moment he couldn't feel anything in his right leg and it was seriously concerning him.

"Grin shot you." She responded nonchalantly as removed the cloth and turned to rewet it once again. "And we numbed it so you wouldn't black out again from the pain. It looks like the bullet might have hit the bone."

"Sorry, who shot me?" John asked.

"Grin," Sylvia responded as she replaced the cool cloth on John's burning brow. "That's his name. Well, that's not his real name; he won't tell any of us his real name. No, we call him Grin on account of all the creepy smiling he does."

"So you work for him? Grin I mean." John asked, trying to get as much information out of Sylvia as possible.

"Not exactly, Grin is second in command." Sylvia responded readily, she seemed delighted to be able to actually talk to someone.

"Then who's first?" John asked curiously. If he knew who was responsible for all of this it might be easier to find a way to escape.

Sylvia smiled at him. "I couldn't tell you even if I knew."

"You mean you don't know who you're working for?" John asked in surprise. "How is it that you don't know that?"

Sylvia shrugged, "No one knows. All we know is that Grin takes his orders from him, and anyone who is able to give orders to Grin is someone you don't want to make cross."

"That seems awfully suspicious to me." John said softly.

"Yeah well that's life." Sylvia laughed. "Why am I telling you all this anyway? I'm not supposed to be talking to you at all and here I am giving you all sorts of inside information. No more questions."

"Fine." John said. "…Just one more?"

She raised her eyebrows at him, waiting.

"How long have I been unconscious?"

Sylvia smirked at him. "Two days."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Italics indicate a flashback**

The next time John awoke he was feeling considerably better, well at least compared to before. The pain in his leg was still there but had subsided to an aching throb instead of sharp stabbing agony. He was, understandably, extremely sore from lying on this cold hard slab for who knows how long and he weakly tried to escape the straps that held him there by attempting to sit up. Unsurprisingly this did not help in the slightest. With a sigh he ceased his futile attempt at escape and went limp again.

After what seemed like an eternity he heard the door to his right open with a click and caught a glimpse of a dark and grungy looking corridor before his view was blocked by a slim figure.

"Hello again Doctor Watson," Sylvia said cheerfully as she slipped into the cramped and dusty room that was his prison. "Good to see you again."

"Good to see you too Sylvia," John grunted as he tried in vain to shift into a more comfortable position. He saw her glance at him, noticing his discomfort and decided it was worth a try to ask.

"Is there any way you could let me up for a minute? Just so I can stretch a little? I'm not as young as I used to be you know." He asked using the most charismatic voice he could muster at the moment.

Sylvia glanced at him one more time, debating. After a moment's silence she finally spoke, "Oh all right but just for a minute." She sighed as she moved beside him and began to undo the thick leather straps.

"Thank you." John said in relief as he sat up and stretched his arms over his head. "I can't tell you how good that feels."

Sylvia smiled at him and undid the last strap holding his right leg to the table. "Don't go and try running away, trust me you wouldn't make it ten feet before they caught you again and it wouldn't be pleasant when they did."

"Uh, definitely not. Do I look like an idiot to you?" John asked sarcastically as he swung his legs off the large black slab and started to slip off the edge to stand.

"Oh no no no no wait!" Sylvia exclaimed just as John's feet hit the floor and his shin exploded in agony.

"AHHHHH!" John screamed as the excruciating pain laced up from his shin and into his whole leg. His knee buckled and gave out and he was sent tumbling forward towards the ground. Suddenly he felt strong arms wrap around his chest under his arms and haul him to his feet. He let out a gasp as the pain in his leg gave a particularly sharp stab and leaned on Sylvia for support.

"We'll now you certainly do look like an idiot." She grunted as she slowly guided him back to the black slab. "Why in God's name would you try to stand when you had just been shot in the leg?!"

"I... Forgot about it," John managed to wheeze through waves of pain.

"How do you forget something like that?!" She exclaimed in frustration. She gingerly set him down and went to the counter next to the door. For the first time John scanned his surroundings. The room was small and barley decorated. His "bed" was in the center of the cramped space and there was only about a five foot gap between it and the wall at any given point in the room. To the right of his "bed" there was an old and rusty metal door which had red spots on it that looked suspiciously like dried blood. Consisting of the same suspicious spots was a counter to the left of the door that ran along the rest of the wall. In the center of the counter was a single grimy sink that Sylvia was currently using to fill up a glass with water. The rest of the room was completely bare; it had clearly not been designed with comfort in mind.

Sylvia turned around and only then did John notice the small tray she had balanced in her hand.

"Here drink this," she said as she handed him the glass of water and the tray, "and eat this."

She set the tray consisting of a roll and some sludge that somewhat resembled oatmeal, down next to him. He stared suspiciously at the food for a moment but soon decided that if she had wanted to kill him she would have done it long ago and he dived at the food.

"I figured you must be hungry given that you haven't eaten in nearly three days now." Sylvia smirked at him as he crammed the disgusting tasting food into his mouth. At this point he didn't care how it tasted as long as it was edible. It only took him a few minutes to consume the measly portion and drink the glass of water.

"Sorry I couldn't bring more. This was all I could smuggle out of the cafeteria this morning." Sylvia stated sheepishly as she snatched the tray and glass away and turned to rinse them off in the sink.

John's eyes snapped up at her words and widened in shock. "You mean you weren't sent here to feed me? You risked yourself just to bring me food?"

Sylvia felt a small blush creep into her cheeks and she quickly turned her face away in an attempt to hide it. "You make it sound heroic when you say it like that, but yes."

"We'll it was heroic!" John exclaimed, "That was incredibly kind if you. Thank you very much."

Sylvia blushed even more. "It was nothing." She said dismissively.

"But I will be in a lot of trouble if I stay here much longer." She said as she gathered up the empty tray and cup. "Could you lie back down so I can strap you in?"

John nodded and gingerly lied back down on the "bed", trying to move his leg as little as possible. As soon as he had shifted himself into a slightly comfortable position Sylvia started to retie the leather straps but she left them slightly looser than before. As soon as he was completely secure she nodded once and moved to the door. She gave him one last glance over her shoulder and John could have sworn he saw something like pity in her vibrant blue eyes, she turned the handle and slipped into the waiting corridor.

* * *

Sylvia power walked down the twisted and grungy maze of corridors that she knew so well and allowed her overwrought mind to wander. Unsurprisingly her mind went immediately to Doctor John Watson. Her cheeks grew warm and she sped up her already rapid pace. She couldn't help it; John was the first person she had felt comfortable with since her parent's untimely deaths. She felt herself involuntarily flinch at the thought of her parents and found herself unwillingly remembering them for the first time in a long while. She was only six when it began, the knocking. She remembered it vividly.

_One calm and peaceful night a young and innocent Sylvia laid quietly in her bed sound asleep, when she was jolted awake by a pounding on the front door. She glanced at the clock; it read 1:33 am. Even being as young as she was she had known something was wrong. Slowly she slipped out of her covers and put her numb toes into her favorite pair of pink bunny slippers, rubbed her eyes thoroughly, and peered around the corner of her door frame. Down the hall to her left she could just make out the dark outline of the front door and she started at it intently, waiting to see if the ominous noise would come again. It did. Just the same as before someone (or something) knocked loudly on the door exactly five times. Wide-eyed and curious she came out from behind the corner and started to walk cautiously toward the door. Before she had made it four steps, however, she heard the soft pitter-patter of feet coming from upstairs. Not wanting to be caught out if bed she dashed back into her room and jumped back under the covers. Less than a second later her father came into view and he cautiously approached the door, looked out the peephole, and stumbled backwards with a gasp._

_And again came the five knocks. There was a look of pure terror on her usually brave and cheerful father's face and he bolted away from the door as if the devil himself was on his heels. He sprinted into Sylvia's room and snatched her up in his strong and comforting arms and hauled her to the back door. "Stay here while I fetch mummy." He whispered to little Sylvia in a panic. He rushed back up the stairs and she heard him crash into her parents' bedroom and begin talking rapidly to her mother. She couldn't make out any of the words but she did hear the muffled shriek of fear that escaped her mother's lips._

_Five more knocks. Her parents came flying down the stairs and they grabbed her and ran for the back door. Just as they reached it they heard a crash come from the front of the house and when Sylvia turned around to look the whole front door had been reduced to splinters and a huge menacing silhouette of a man stood in the empty space. Her mother let out a scream and they burst through the back door and ran out into the black night._

Sylvia shook her head in an attempt to clear it and slowed her rapid pace down to a comfortable trot. She rounded one more grungy corner and turned to face the looming door in front of her. She fished a key out of her worn pant pocket and fitted it into the lock. The door swung open to reveal a room that looked much the same as John's. In fact the only noticeable difference between the two was that this one had a real bed that was pushed up against the far wall. Sylvia sighed and closed the door behind her, home sweet home. She wearily drudged over to the bed and flopped down on top of the musty and lumpy mattress. Of course this hadn't always been her home.

_Over the course of the next ten years after the first man came knocking at her door there were many others that followed suit. Her parents and she were never able to stay in the same house for more than six months before another knocking man came to visit. And when he did they would run, they would run for days until they found a new city or town where they would start all over again. For ten years that was all her life ever consisted of. And then one day they didn't run quite fast enough._

_She had been sixteen when yet another mysterious man came knocking on their door, but he had been different. Never, not once, had any of the men said anything to them, but this one did._

_"Phil I know you're in there!" He yelled at the night. Phil was her father's name and the fact that this man knew it put her on edge. "Come on out Phil, I just wanna chat."_

_Sylvia glanced at her father with a question in her eyes. Currently they were crouched behind a cabinet that was right next to the back door, ready to bolt if necessary. Her father just shook his head and mouthed 'run'. So that's exactly what they did, both her parents and her burst out the back and ran as fast as they could._

_"Phil!" She heard the man yell and she made the foolish mistake of glancing back. Her foot caught on a stray branch and she was sent tumbling toward the ground at an alarming rate._

_"Sylvia!" She heard her father cry as he spun back around for her. She slammed into the ground and the air rushed from her lungs, leaving her gasping for breath. Within moments her father was there next to her trying to get her back on her feet. Just as he was pulling her up the knocking man yelled to them from the distance._

_"You aren't getting away from me unscathed this time Phil!" He screamed in rage and she heard the sound of a gun firing._

_"NO!" Her father yelled as he flung himself in front of his injured daughter in an attempt to protect her from the deadly projectiles._

_"DAD!" Sylvia screamed as the bullets ripped through the strong muscles of her father's chest. Phil slumped to the ground and lay there, unmoving. Desperately she looked around for a sign of her mother but there was none, even the killer had disappeared. She was alone._

Sylvia squeezed her eyes shut and clutched the sheets of her bed to her chest. Warm tears seeped out of her eyes. That had been the day she lost everything. Soon after that, without the protection and guidance of her parents, sixteen year old Sylvia had finally been caught by the mysterious men who had so often come knocking at her door. They kidnapped her and took her here, wherever here was (she had been blindfolded), and she hadn't been allowed to leave since. Contrary to what he had told John she didn't work here, she was a prisoner here, just like him. To this day she didn't know why these men had followed her family so intently. The men who had kidnapped her belonged to an organization called The Wolf and this building was one of many that they owned. At first she had been put under maximum security and had been locked up in a similar way to Doctor Watson but after a few months they started to let her out of her cell to do little jobs here and there. It wasn't because they trusted her, no far from it; they knew that she wouldn't try to escape because she had nowhere else to go. She had nothing worth living for out there so what was the point in escape?

"Alright that's enough of that." Sylvia said firmly to herself as she forced her mind back to the present. There was no point in thinking about things you couldn't change.

She walked over to her sink and splashed cold water on her face. She let her mind wander again. And again her thoughts returned to Doctor John Watson, although this time she was thinking about something other than the feeling she had for him. John Watson was in the same position that she had been in when she was sixteen except for one thing, one crucial detail; he still had something worth living for. She had heard him calling out a name in his sleep, someone called Sherlock. So Sylvia decided right then and there that she was going to help him get back to them. She was going to help him escape, and she was already coming up with a plan.


	13. The Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Italics indicate flashbacks**

_Sherlock_ _tore his gaze away from the computer screen, his hands were clenched in white fists and his whole body was shaking. He took a deep breath, he needed to calm down, John was alive and he was going to save him, no matter what the cost. Once he had composed himself he chanced a glance up at his older brother to find that Mycroft was already looking down at him with a warning in his eyes._

_"Don't even consider it Sherlock. If you hand yourself over to those maniacs then they will certainly kill you, and John." The elder man said sadly._

_"We can't know that for sure," Sherlock responded quickly. "We have to try."_

_"I won't allow it." Mycroft said as he straightened up and closed the laptop, hiding the ominous message from sight. "I'm not about to let you just walk in there, hand yourself over, and hope for the best!"_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "Do you really think I'm that stupid Mycroft? I'm not going to walk in there and just 'hope for the best', I have a plan."_

_"Do tell," Mycroft said expectantly. So Sherlock did. His eyebrows slowly inching farther and farther up on his creased forehead as Sherlock told him his idea._

_"That seems a bit risky don't you think? There is an awful lot that could go wrong." Mycroft stated when Sherlock had finished._

_"If you have any better ideas I would be delighted to hear them." Sherlock said sarcastically. "Now can you please remove these handcuffs? If this is going to work I'm going to need my hands to be fully operational."_

* * *

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock jumped at the noise and glanced around, looking for the source.

"Sherlock have you been listening to a word I've said?" Greg Lestrade asked him with annoyance.

"I'm not really in the mood for meaningless conversation right now Lestrade." Sherlock sighed at the detective inspector as he continued to stare out the tinted window of one of his brothers many luxury cars. He watched as slowly the amount of buildings began to decrease as they drove farther and farther away from the heart of London. Finally after three long days his plan was finally being put into action.

Greg shot him an annoyed glance from the corner of his eye, "Look Sherlock-"

Sherlock interrupted him with a noise of exasperation. "Ugh not now Lestrade I'm trying to think." The lanky detective slumped down in the plush seat and tried to re-enter his mind palace.

"I was only going to ask where the hell we are going!" Greg nearly shouted at the obnoxious man sitting next to him.

"We are headed to an old abandoned machine factory were John is being held captive. That's all you need to know." Sherlock responded without even glancing at him. It had not been easy tracking down where John's captors had hidden him; they were extremely good at covering their tracks.

"Humph," Greg grunted to his right.

Sherlock entered his mind palace and looked back on the events that led him to this point, double checking that no crucial points had been missed.

_There were footsteps coming up the old wooden stairs of 221B and Sherlock could hear them creaking as someone worked their way up to his doorway. The footsteps were light, but slow, on the creaky steps and the length of time between each step was short. He could also hear a soft feminine sounding grunt as one of their feet slipped and they were sent stumbling back a little just as they were about to reach the top._

_"What is it that you need Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked calmly just as his landlady knocked on the door to his flat. She opened it a crack and slipped inside, closing it behind her._

_"There's a message for you dear. Someone just dropped it off. I asked for his name but he wouldn't give it to me." She said with concern as she handed him a small white envelope._

_"Good to see you too Mycroft," she said in greeting as she noticed the older Holmes standing off to the side a bit. He nodded his head in her direction in acknowledgement. "And you as well Mrs. Hudson."_

_The elderly woman gave the flat one last glance and finally seemed to realize that something, or rather someone, was missing._

_"Where's John?" She directed the question at Sherlock, worry lines appearing on her face in place of her ever-present smile._

_"He's upstairs, just a bit tired." Sherlock responded dismissively, the lie rolling easily off his tongue. It gave him no pleasure to lie to Mrs. Hudson but it was necessary sometimes, it was for her own good._

_"Ah bless him," she said lovingly as she started to head for the door. "When he wakes up, tell him that he needs to go to bed earlier or he's going to get sick from the lack of sleep."_

_"Will do Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft responded for Sherlock as the younger began to analyze the envelope. He heard her slip out the door and trot down the steps. Good, one less distraction._

_The envelope was small, no bigger than 4in x 3in, and the back was taped shut with clear tape. No seal to help him out this time then. The lower right corner was bent slightly backwards suggesting that it had been in a pocket and there was a small smudge if oil on the back where a glove or finger must have brushed it. Taking a closer look at the smudge under the microscope revealed that the oil was actually grease, the type used for making and lubricating machine parts. The person who delivered it must have come from some kind of a factory. But the room that he had seen in the video had looked abandoned. Perhaps an abandoned factory then. Finally, after he had discovered all that he could from the envelope itself he opened it. At first he thought there was nothing in it, but as he looked closer he found a small slip of paper with the message: 'Are you clever enough to figure it out?' Somehow it seemed familiar…_

_"What did you find?" Mycroft asked nonchalantly as he strolled into the flat with a cup of coffee in his hand._

_"Not much," the detective sighed. "They are keeping him in an old machine factory that much is certain, the grease smudge was a dead giveaway. Other than that I couldn't get much useful information off of the envelope itself but I opened it to find this note," he handed the slip of paper to Mycroft. "It was written on a torn corner of standard computer paper. Where did you get that coffee?" Sherlock asked his brother, looking away from the microscope and up at him for the first time._

_"I went out a while ago and got it," Mycroft answered as he set the cup down and looked at the note thoroughly. "Didn't notice my absence then?"_

_"The question mark is smeared at the tip," Sherlock continued without answering his question, "and some of the other letters have also been smudged so it was obviously written with water-based ink, from a rollerball pen I suspect, so they were in a hurry or were pressured and didn't let the ink dry properly before sealing it in the envelope, hence the smears." Sherlock rambled off his deductions as he snatched the note back out if Mycroft's hands. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen it somewhere before. "Rollerball pens are much more expensive than your average disposable ballpoint pen so the writer must have a bit of extra cash or they wouldn't waste money on a pen like this. The writing is also slightly slanted to the left so they must have been left-handed. This narrows down the field quite a bit." Sherlock snatched the envelope off the table and scrutinized it further, looking for any minuscule detail that he might have overlooked. Mycroft moved from his earlier position to stand directly behind the young detective and studied the slip of paper over his shoulder, his own deductions whirling through his head at a mile a minute._

_"Ahhh, think!" Sherlock shouted at no one in particular. Who would have been in a hurry, was left handed, and had familiar-_

_"John!" Both Sherlock and Mycroft said out loud simultaneously._

_"John must have been forced to write this, THAT'S why I thought it looked familiar! I recognized his handwriting!" Sherlock exclaimed in excitement. If it had been anyone other than John that had been kidnapped he might have even been enjoying himself._

_"Now, knowing John," Sherlock continued as he picked up the note again, "he would have tried to leave us some kind of message for us." He took out his pocket magnifying glass and took a closer look at the writing. As the magnifier passed over the large smear at the tip of the question mark a series of dots and dashes could be faintly made out:_ '−••• −•−− − •••• • •••• −−− − • •−••' _He smiled to himself, good old John Watson._

_"Morse code," Sherlock explained as he started to decode the message._

_"By… the… hotel… What is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock exclaimed as he ran a hand through his dark curly hair in frustration._

_"I do believe that he means the building is by the hotel you called me from that night you had your nightmare." Mycroft said with a smile. "Oh he is rather good, I see why you like him."_

_Sherlock's gaze snapped up at that but he made no attempt to correct him otherwise. Instead he said, "Let's go," as he grabbed his coat and scarf off the table and rushed out the door._

* * *

A particularly large bump in the road brought his thoughts swiftly back to the present. As he nervously looked out the window he saw that the paved road had turned into gravel and the sun was just about to vanish behind the startlingly barren horizon. In a few more moments the night had laid its gloomy blanket over the entire landscape and Sherlock could no longer distinguish one tree from another. With a sigh he looked over to his right and saw that Greg had fallen asleep next to him. He would let him sleep for a little longer; he was going to need all the strength he could get later.

After Mycroft and he had figured out where it was that they were supposed to rescue John from they had spent a seemingly endless amount of time prepping for Sherlock's plan. Now, it seemed, that the waiting was finally coming to an end.

After about fifteen more minutes he gripped the detective inspector's shoulder and shook it. "Come on wake up Lestrade, we are almost there."

"Alright, alright," Greg responded through a yawn, "I'm up."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and bounced his leg in excitement; something was _finally_ going to happen. The car slowed to a stop and was put into park just off the worn gravel road.

"We are about mile away boys," the driver said to them over his shoulder. "You know what to do."

Sherlock and Greg nodded and slipped out of the car. As soon as the doors shut behind them the jet black car rushed out of sight and drove back the way they came, blending into the curtain of black until it was no longer visible.

The pair of men studied their surroundings; there was a dense forest behind them that was shrouded in darkness, which was not where they were heading. Instead, their attention was drawn across the street where there was a large hilly field with only a small cluster of bushes and one or two lonesome trees providing any cover. It was about a mile into that field that the factory was hidden. They dashed across the gravel, attempting to make as little noise as possible, and ran from cover to cover.

In less than twenty minutes they were crouched behind some large shrubbery and were peering around the edge to get a glimpse of the building. The structure was unimpressive; it was approximately 30,000 square feet (according to Sherlock's research) with thick concrete walls that were buried in a large assortment of foliage. There were no visible windows from this angle but a large metal door could be seen peeking out from behind the vines, which was where he needed to go. Unfortunately there was also an armed guard standing on either side of it.

"There's the door," Greg whispered in Sherlock's ear. "You ready?"

Sherlock turned and gave him an amused look, "Always."

And with that, Sherlock swiftly stood up and calmly strolled directly towards the door.


	14. The Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **the italics are Mycroft talking to them through the earpiece, NOT flashbacks this time**

"Evening fellas," Sherlock greeted the two armed men calmly as he stepped into the circle of light illuminating the door. As the two men fumbled with their weapons Greg pressed a finger to the communicator in his right ear, "Now Mycroft." Within seconds, the lights blinked out and Greg and Sherlock launched into action. Disoriented, the armed men stumbled around trying to find a light switch and in mere minutes Sherlock and Greg had knocked both out cold. As soon as the men hit the ground with a thump the lights flicked back on, once again illuminating the door.

_"There are two other guards around the corner but they don't seem to have noticed anything,"_ Mycroft said to both Sherlock and Greg through the earpiece. _"The key to the door should be on the belt of the man to your right, Sherlock."_

Sherlock bent down next to the unconscious man and grabbed the key and his gun. "Do you have access to the security cameras inside?" Sherlock whispered into his earpiece.

_"Yes, but there are not enough of them for me to give you an accurate layout of the whole complex. I can't seem to locate John on any of them either."_

"Shit." Greg cursed under his breath; they had been counting on that.

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance, "If I know John, he hasn't been sitting idle for the past three days. He will have a plan of his own by now, so he will likely be on the move. We'll see him on one of the cameras eventually."

Greg looked at him, momentarily shocked. He wondered how Sherlock could sound so confident. "Right. Well keep an eye out then Mycroft. Is the other side of the door clear?"

_"As far as I can tell, yes. For now at least,"_ Mycroft responded.

"Then let's not waste any more time." Sherlock said as he went up to the rusty metal door and inserted the key into the lock. After a moment, the door creaked open and Sherlock and Greg slipped inside, quietly closing the door after them, and dropped into a crouch. They were in a short hallway that went straight for a few yards then dead ended at another hallway running horizontal to it. The two men covered their mouths with their hands to try to stifle the sound of their breathing. Sherlock's eyes filtered around them, noticing everything, when he saw the camera in the corner opposite of them. He waved at it and shrugged his shoulders.

Mycroft immediately responded, _"The hallway is empty, but there is a woman walking down the next hallway to your right. She doesn't look armed but is carrying some small wood planks and pieces of cloth for some peculiar reason. There aren't any cameras in the hallway to your left so I don't know what's over there, be cautious."_

Sherlock nodded at the camera as Greg and him got up, walked to the corner, and peered around the edge to the left. There was no one in sight.

"This is too easy. Something's wrong." Greg whispered nervously to Sherlock as they cautiously walked down the abandoned hallway. The fact that something was wrong wasn't what worried him; it was that he couldn't figure out what it was.

"I know. I knew something was wrong as soon as the door opened and no alarm went off." Sherlock whispered back.

Greg rolled his eyes, "You always have to know everything don't you?"

_"Both of you be quiet!"_ Mycroft hissed irritably before his younger brother could make a comeback, _"Sherlock, just this once try to stop being an insufferable know-it-all so that you two don't get caught."_

"I can't just stop," Sherlock snapped back. "I can't help it that I'm smarter than both of you combined."

_"Fine,"_ Mycroft said through his teeth, _"then do it for John."_

That shut him up. Sherlock glanced up at another camera as they passed it. "Alright, fine. For John." He huffed in defeat.

Greg's eyes widened at that. He shot the detective a questioning glance as they slipped around another corner.

Sherlock saw his stare and raised his eyebrows at him, "Something on your mind Lestrade?" He asked in a mocking tone, "Or are you just confused, as usual."

Greg narrowed his eyes at him and shook his head. No, there was no way that this cynical, rude, arrogant man was capable if that.

As they reached another corner Mycroft spoke up again, _"Now I don't have any kind of visual down this next hallway so tread with care."_

"Yes, thanks mother." Sherlock sarcastically as they slowly inched closer to the edge, keeping their backs pressed up against the wall as they did. Right as Sherlock was about to peer around the edge, a small squad of guards rounded the corner. Sherlock and Greg froze. For an instant, the guards were too busy chatting amongst themselves to take any notice of the two intruders, but soon they were all fumbling for their weapons and yelling at them to halt.

Sherlock looked at Greg. "RUN!" He screamed and the pair sprinted back the way they came, leaving an angry mob of armed men and a wailing alarm in their wake.

* * *

John was limping down the hallway, leaning on Sylvia, when the alarm went off.

"Oh shit, someone must have seen us go." John growled through his teeth, his leg was hurting considerably more than he had thought it would.

"Quick, in here," Sylvia whispered as she slipped into a small room to their left. He quickly flowed suit and closed the door softly behind him, leaving it open just a crack so they could see what was going on out in the hall.

John groaned and leaned against the wall. Damn this leg. Glancing down at it he fiddled with some of the straps of cloth Sylvia had gotten for him and attempted to make them fit tighter around the make-shift splint made of broken pieces of wood, without much success. He sighed and leaned his back against the cool wall; this continuous wailing was starting to give him a headache.

"You know," Sylvia started with her face pressed up to the crack in the door, "I don't think that alarm was for us."

John opened his eyes and gave her a surprised glance. "What makes you say that?"

"Well it's just that if the alarm was set off because someone saw us escape, then some guards should have been sent down the fetch us by now. This corridor seems completely deserted to me, so someone else must have triggered the alarm." She said in a rush. "What are you smiling for?" She added when she noticed the lopsided grin that had crept onto John's features.

"Oh its nothing," he responded with amusement, letting the smile slide off his face. "You just reminded me of someone when you did that deduction."

"Who?" She asked, curious.

John remained silent. If he started talking about Sherlock now he would definitely break down.

"It's Sherlock, isn't it?" Sylvia asked softly, in a slightly crestfallen tone.

John's head whipped around to face her. "How did you know that? I never told you about him." His voice had gotten dangerously soft.

Sylvia was slightly taken aback. _Him_? Sherlock was a man? _I guess I just assumed,_ she thought, _because he was whispering his name in his sleep that it must have been a girlfriend of his or something…_

"Well? How did you know?" John asked impatiently. He did not like this one bit, how could she possibly know about Sherlock? And how much else did she know…

"I-," she stammered, "you were- well you were talking in your sleep... When you were unconscious." A hot flush had crept up and warmed her cheeks.

John blanched, "Oh… What-" he cleared his throat, "what else did you hear?..."

She shook her head, "Nothing. You just kept murmuring 'Sherlock' over and over again. Who is he?"

Relief flowed into John. He hadn't let it slip that he loved him then, good. "He's my… friend… My best friend." He turned his head away; she couldn't see him cry, not now, not ever.

"I think someone's coming." She whispered to him, trying to change the subject.

John wiped the back of his hand across his tear-stained face and turned to look through the crack in the doorway, avoiding all eye contact with Sylvia. He could just make out the sound of thundering footsteps quickly approaching nearer. The peculiar pair pressed their eyes right up against the door frame and watched as two lanky men came sprinting down the hallway and ran right past their temporary hideout. John's jaw dropped as he recognized his partner in crime and Greg Lestrade and it dropped even farther when the group of about twenty armed guards sprinted after them.

"SHER-" he began to scream after the detective when Sylvia's hand shot up and clamped over his mouth. He ripped her hand away in a fury and shouted, "SHERLOCK!"

It was too late though; his friends and the guards had already made it down the rest of the hallway and turned a corner, putting them out of earshot.

John rounded on Sylvia and glared at her, "You just ruined my one chance to let my best friend who thinks I'm dead know I'm alive, so if I were you I would keep your distance." He growled at her, his hands curled into fists. He knew why she did it; it was the smart thing to do. If he had yelled and gotten Sherlock's attention then the guards would have simply captured all of them and all hope of rescue would have been lost. Even knowing that it still tore his heart apart knowing Sherlock had been so close and yet he couldn't let him know he was there. _This is what it must have felt like when Sherlock had to hide from me,_ he thought, and he felt a rush of sympathy and awe towards the man, he never could have been that strong.

A moment of tense silence followed John's outburst. "We should see where they are headed," John said finally. Sylvia nodded, obviously rattled by John's scolding and he put a hand on her shoulder. "Look, I'm sorry. You couldn't have possibly known that Sherlock thinks I'm dead. It was the right thing to do to cover my mouth and I'm sorry I lashed out at you. I'm just pretty wound up right now, OK?"

She nodded at him and looked at him with understanding; she knew exactly how he felt. "Right, let's go then."

They checked one more time to make sure no one was out in the hallway before they slipped out from behind the door and walked to the corner where Sherlock and Lestrade had disappeared around. They peered around the edge, there was no one there.

"God they are quick," Sylvia muttered before straightening up.

"They sure are, but thank God you two aren't," said a rough voice behind them. The pair froze as the each felt a barrel of a gun press up against the small of their backs. John knew that voice, he would never be able to forget it, but it was Sylvia that spoke first. She turned around and faced the cruel smiling tan face of their captor.

"Hello Grin."

 


	15. The Fight

Grin smiled viciously. "Hello there Sylvia, I see you took a fancy to Dr. Watson here and decided that you might like to help him make his valiant and daring escape. Not your smartest move."

Sylvia saw John give her a questioning glance out of the corner of her eye. Her only response was a huge blush that set her cheeks on fire and her ears burning. She saw Grin's smile widen as he observed her embarrassment.

"I thought so," he said gleefully. "Take them away."

The guards surrounding the pair of them pushed them forward and down the hall. John gave Sylvia a sympathetic glance and she returned it with another, even brighter, blush. He honestly did feel sorry for her, if someone had just blurted out about his feeling for Sherlock he would have been devastated too. Although he has made very sure that no one found out about them, not even Sherlock.

The guards pushed them both into a large spacious room that was barren except for benches along one wall and a few scattered wooden crates. Still held at gunpoint the men directed John and Sylvia to the benches.

"Take a seat," said Grin.

The two obliged and sat on one of the many hard concrete benches, side by side.

Sylvia spoke quickly, "He didn't have anything to do with this, it was all my-"

"Shut up," Grin spat at her.

"It was worth a try, thanks any way." John whispered to her appreciatively.

"Both of you be quiet! Unless you want a bullet through your friend's heads!" Grin snapped back.

John's head snapped up just as Sherlock and Lestrade were marched in at gunpoint by two more of Grin's vicious henchmen. John let out a groan, they had caught them too. Now there was absolutely no chance of rescue, great.

Grin smiled again has he heard John groan, obviously enjoying how much pain it was causing him. "Good, now that we're all together let's begin. How-"

"You said that if I came here you would let John go, so let him go." Sherlock interrupted. He looked over at John; there was hopelessness and fear in his eyes. All Sherlock wanted to do was run up to him and tell him it was going to be alright, that everything was going to be ok and that he was going to get them out of this. The only problem was that he knew it wasn't true, nothing was going to be ok and if he didn't do something soon things could get very bad, very quickly. He needed to think.

"You didn't actually think I was going to keep a promise like that did you? Mr. Holmes you really are much stupider than I thought." Grin said, turning his attention to him.

_Good,_ _at least he's not focused on John anymore_ , he thought, _I'd better keep it that way_. He raised his eyebrows at the threatening man and regarded him with a smug expression. "Oh no of course I knew you wouldn't keep that promise, which is precisely why I had Mycroft surround this building with police before me and Lestrade here penetrated your insignificantly defended base." He said pompously, "Didn't you find it the least bit suspicious that Lestrade and I didn't have any kind of back up when we barged in here? Honestly _you_ are much stupider than _I_ thought."

John chanced a shocked glance at Sherlock and caught his eye. As soon as he made eye contact, however, Sherlock quickly looked away and returned his full attention to Grin who was slowly advancing on him with his fists clenched. John felt his heart drop, he knew Sherlock well enough by now to know when he was making a bluff, even if he tried to hide it. He looked away from the detective and glanced up at the guard in front of Sylvia and him, he was completely focused on the interaction between Sherlock and Grin. Understanding that Sherlock was trying to divert attention away from him and buy some time he inched closer to Sylvia and explained the plan in hushed whispers.

"I don't believe you," Grin said to Sherlock sternly; however Sherlock was able to see that he was clearly on edge. His fists were clenching and unclenching, he tilted his chin up just a little too high, and he was licking his lips once too often, all things that suggested uneasiness that only a trained eye like his would have been able to pick out. He had him just where he wanted him.

Sherlock smiled in the most convincing and smug way he could muster, "Do you want me to call them in? My brother has this entire room bugged, they can see and hear everything that's going on. I instructed them to advance only if we were in immediate danger but I have a signal I could give them that would work just as well."

Grin growled at him and turned to his henchmen, "Check the whole room. Look for any bugs."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Sherlock said trying to divert their attention back to him so they wouldn't notice Sylvia and John slowly inching their way down the benches towards the exit. "One more move and I'll give the signal."

Grin turned to face him once more "How will you give the signal if you're dead?" He asked in a mocking voice and the gunman behind him moved closer and pressed the barrel into the small of his back.

"Now I do believe that would qualify as 'immediate danger' don't you think Lestrade?" He asked the dazed looking inspector. He had taken a nasty blow to the head on the way in and he needed to keep him conscious if they were going to make it out of here. Dragging a body behind them would slow down their escape considerably.

"Sherlock wh- what are you talking about?" He asked sluggishly as his head lolled on his shoulders, "What- what back up?"

"Oh wonderful, nicely done Lestrade," Sherlock said sarcastically as he saw Grin smile," One of the greatest mysteries of life is how you ever got the job of Detective Inspector. NOW JOHN!"

Grin spun around and John sprang into action and, with the help of Sylvia, quickly took down the guard closest them and picked up his weapon. Shots rang out and echoed in the barren room as John, Sylvia, and the guards fired at each other.

While Grin's back was turned Sherlock spun around and delivered an uppercut to the gunman's chin. Before he could recuperate he knocked the gun out his hand and kicked him hard in the stomach. The guard doubled over and Sherlock almost fell to the ground from the pain in his leg. In all the excitement and thrill of finding John he had completely forgotten that he had broken it just three days prior. Gritting his teeth he disarmed and knocked the guard supporting Lestrade unconscious. He managed to catch the inspector before he hit the ground and he sucked in a breath as his leg flared in pain again.

"What's going on Sherlock?" Lestrade asked groggily as he went limp in his arms. Great, now they had someone to carry out. Sherlock limped his way as quickly as he could to cover and set Lestrade down behind a crate. Gun shots were still going off all around him, he needed to find John and his new friend and make their way out of here before any more guards came.

Grasping the pistol he took off of one of the guards he disposed of, he came out from behind the crate and looked for John as he fired at a few of the guards that had their backs to him. One bullet hit home and the unsuspecting guard dropped to the floor screaming and clutching his shoulder while the other bullets missed their intended targets and struck the wall.

More gunshots, more screaming; Sherlock had never been in a fight like this before. He dived from cover to cover, dodging bullets and firing his gun until he ran out of ammunition. But soon he would find another fully loaded gun to replace his empty one and he would continue shooting again. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of John and his lady friend fighting together, back to back, but every time he would try to make his way over to them they would slip back into the growing crowd of enemies and he would lose them again. More and more guards were streaming into the large room and it seemed that for every man he killed there were two more to take his place. They weren't going to last much longer like this, he needed to find a way to get out or close the doors. Of course, closing the doors would mean there would be no escaping but at least it would stop the flow of guards for a time being. Sherlock fought his way to one of the exits and looked for a lock or button to close the door. Yet another guard came rushing from the hallway and charged at Sherlock. Sherlock held his ground and just as the man was about to reach him he turned away and pressed his back against the wall, letting the guard rush straight past him. As the guard ran by he casually shot him in the back and continued to search for a lock.

Finally he managed to find a small green button next to the door and when he pressed it the metal door slammed shut and a large steel bar shifted into place behind it. Likewise the other remaining exits around the room closed and bolted shut with a bang that could be heard over the continuous gun shots. _That should stop them for a while at least,_ he thought hopefully. He continued to fight his way around the room on the lookout for John.

After what felt like an eternity they had killed or incapacitated most of the remaining guards and only after Sherlock went over to the crate he had placed Lestrade behind and made sure he was alive and unharmed did he finally make his way over to where John was standing.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked him with concern.

"Yeah, yeah I'm alright. Just a few scrapes and bruises." John panted, "But my leg-" He stumbled and fell as his leg gave out from under him and Sherlock rushed over and managed to catch him before he hit the ground. John's breath caught and he stared up at Sherlock, saying nothing, as Sherlock held him gently in his arms. For a moment neither of them moved, spoke, or blinked. John gazed into Sherlock's sea green eyes; he had come for him, even when he knew there was little to no chance of escape he had still come.

"Thanks," he managed to say after a moment. _Thanks for everything._ "I never thought I'd say this again but I could really use my old cane right about now."

Sherlock laughed at that. John smiled and chuckled along with him, he had missed that deep baritone laugh.

"I think I could use one too." Sherlock said as he helped him to his feet and guided him to a bench.

"Oh God that's right, I had forgotten about your leg." John said with concern as he and Sherlock sat down. "I suppose we're both crippled now huh?"

"It would seem so," Sherlock smiled, it felt good just to sit down with John and talk, even if where they were talking from was a locked room with half a dozen guards waiting outside the doors to kill them. "Who's she?" He asked, pointing at Sylvia who was going from guard to guard making sure that they were either dead or unconscious.

"That's Sylvia, she was the one who helped me escape and made this for me," John responded, motioning to the makeshift splint on his leg. "She used to work for these guys but turned against them for me."

"Hmph," Sherlock grunted as he watched her movements carefully. As much as he hated to admit it he was slightly jealous of her. "Are you sure we can trust her?"

John nodded, "Yes, I'm sure. She has helped me quite a bit these last few days."

Sherlock nodded curtly, respecting John's judgment. If John trusted her then he could trust her too. They sat in silence as they slowly recovered from the fight.

"How do you suppose-" John began when he was interrupted by a blood curdling scream from Sylvia. She was pressing both hands over her stomach and there was blood seeping through her fingers. John and Sherlock jumped to their feet and rushed to her side, injured legs forgotten, as her knees hit the floor and she let out another scream of pain. John ran straight to her as Sherlock rushed to the grinning guard with the bloody knife in his hand lying on the ground next to her. After a moment Sherlock recognized him as Grin. He stomped on Grin's hand that held the knife and he let go of it with a yelp. John pulled Sylvia off to the side to tend to her wound.

"Sylvia what happened?" John asked with worry as he moved her hands away from the wound in her stomach.

"I was checking them, to-to see if there was anyone still awake." She moaned as John ripped away the fabric over the cut so he could get a better look. It was bleeding profusely and was deep. Very deep. _Shit_.

"Yes I saw," he said as he inspected the gash further. "What happened then?"

"I thought I saw him move," she whimpered, tears streaming down her face, "so I went over to check."

She screamed again as John accidentally brushed a particularly sensitive spot. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I have to try to clean it as much as I can. What happened then?" He needed to keep her talking; if she was talking then she was alive.

"When- when I went over he whispered to me. He said 'Sylvia didn't you ever wonder why we were chasing your parents, all those years ago?' I was too curious, I leaned down and he-" she sobbed, "he stabbed me. It hurts John, it hurts so much. Please make it stop."

"I'm trying Sylvia I'm trying. Just hang on you're going to be ok." He pressed the torn fabric to her stomach in an attempt to stop the bleeding. She screamed again and gripped his arm as fresh tears streamed down her bloodied face. "Just hold on, be strong, you are going to be fine." But she wasn't, and he knew it. The wound was too deep and she had lost too much blood already. She knew it too.

"John, John look at me,"

He turned his head away, not able to look into the dying girl's eyes. She was so young, she would have had so many things to look forward to in her life, and now she would never be able to do any of it. All because he had gotten her wrapped up in this huge mess.

"John, look. At. Me."

He did, she was slumped against the wall, one hand over her still bleeding stomach and the other still gripping his arm. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"

"No of course not," the lie didn't even sound convincing to himself.

"John, tell me the truth. Am I going to die?" There was a slight tremble in her voice.

John reached out and cupped her cheek, wiping a tear from her face. "Yes."

She let out a sad sigh, closed her eyes, and leaned against his hand on her cheek. John glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock who had the knife up against Grin's neck and was watching him and Sylvia. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at John and he shook his head at him slightly. Sherlock nodded curtly and gave Sylvia sympathetic glance before returning his attention to Grin.

"John," Sylvia said hesitantly and John refocused his attention on her. "I want to know what he was going to say. I want to know why." Her voice was getting weaker and she was getting more and more pale. John choked back tears and nodded, he motioned for Sherlock to bring Grin over.

John heard Sherlock drag the injured man over and he set him down next to him, still holding the knife to his throat.

"What-" Sylvia started weakly, "what were you going to say? Why were you chasing my parents? Why did they have to die?"

Sherlock glanced at John questioningly. _Do you know about any of this?_ He seemed to ask. John shook his head no, this was all news to him as well.

Grin seemed to know exactly what she was talking about however, and his sick smile widened even further. "They were one of us," he said venomously.

Sylvia flinched and looked as though she had been slapped, the little color that was left in her cheeks drained away, and she began to tremble. "No, no that's not true. It can't be true."

"Oh but it is," he said with glee, he was obviously enjoying how much pain this was causing her. "They killed people, many people. In fact they were the worst of us, particularly your father. Did you ever wonder why we never told you who our leader is? Why we never told anyone? We were ashamed, to be honest, because our leader turned away from us. Our leader was your _dad_."

"No! No he wasn't! You're lying! My father would never help anyone like you!" She wailed at him.

Grin laughed, "He was, and he was a great leader too. He was clever, very clever, and brutal too. He always managed to come up with the most creative ways to get uncooperative prisoners to talk."

Sylvia was sobbing again, "It's not true, it's not."

"Alright that's enough Grin," John intervened. "Sherlock can you take him away and find something to tie him up with?"

Sherlock nodded and moved away with their captive while John refocused on Sylvia. "Are you ok?"

She nodded weakly and squeezed his arm a little tighter. "John," she whispered as she motioned for him to lean in. He did and Sylvia used the last of her remaining strength to sit up and brush her lips against his. "Sherlock is a very lucky man," she whispered and John jumped back in surprise, "You love him very much, and he loves you. I see how much you care for each other and how much you mean to him. I believe he would have fought his way right around the world to save you. Live a long and happy life together, please, for me." She stared into his eyes and waited for an answer.

John blinked at her, "I, I mean we, will. Thank you Sylvia, thank you for everything." He planted a soft kiss on her forehead and she smiled sadly. She took one more quiet breath and her faced relaxed and her hand that had been gripping John's arm went slack and it hit the ground with a soft thud. John sighed and he gently brushed his fingertips over her eyes, closing them forever. He stared at the ground and let a single tear run down his face, the drop hit the cement by his feet and he stared at it, unable to make himself look up at the lifeless face of his young friend. He felt Sherlock's slim hand on his shoulder and he placed his hand on top of his, giving it a slight squeeze. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder in kind and they both stood still, silently grieving the loss of a true friend.


	16. The Escape

"Come on John," Sherlock said softly after what he considered to be an appropriate amount of time. "We need to get Lestrade and find a way out of here."

John nodded numbly; he knew it was time to move on. "Where is he?" He asked, thankful for the change of subject.

"Over here," Sherlock responded as he walked towards the wooden crate that he had carefully deposited the unfortunate detective inspector behind. "He was clever enough to get kicked in the head on the way in."

John nodded and kneeled down beside his unconscious friend and checked his pulse.

While John was inspecting Lestrade, Sherlock started pacing the room and thinking of a way out. "Mycroft are you still there?" He asked into his earpiece. A surge of static was his only response; they must have interrupted the feed.

"Right, ok then. We are just going to have to risk it." He said.

"Risk what?"

"I can see no other way out of this situation so grab Lestrade and let's go."

"Sherlock hold on," John said getting up and grabbing the detective's arm to prevent him from walking away. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock turned to face him, "Really? I'm surprised you didn't already figure it out." He said sarcastically, "We are going in the vents."

* * *

"Ouch! Geez this is tight." John exclaimed as he managed to hit his head for the fifth time.

"John shut up! They probably already know we're in here but we should try to avoid letting them know exactly _where_ we are." Sherlock snapped back from up ahead.

"Okay okay sorry," John whispered back, rolling his eyes. "Why am I the one that had to drag Lestrade along though?"

"Because I needed to go first so I can try to navigate this ventilation system. I think the chances of me being able to find a way out are much higher than yours don't you think?" Sherlock said mockingly.

John's only response was another roll of his eyes and a soft grunt as he pulled his unconscious friend along behind him. They came up on another crossroad and Sherlock suddenly stopped crawling and laid flat on the floor of the shaft.

"Sherlock what-"

"Shhhh!"

John shut up, clenched his jaw, and waited for him to explain. After a moment of tense silence Sherlock slowly resumed his former position on his hands and knees and took a left.

"Sherlock-" John whispered after him as he tried to pull Lestrade as quickly as he could along the narrow passage way, "Sherlock wait!"

When he finally managed to pull the limp body around the tight corner he found, to his surprise, an open hatch in the bottom of the shaft just a few feet away. "Dammit Sherlock where did you go this time?" He whispered to himself as he slowly made his way over to the opening.

He reached the hole and cautiously looked over the edge, it was pitch black. He couldn't even make out any kind of shapes, just seemingly impenetrable darkness.

"Sherlock?" He whispered cautiously into the gloom.

"I'm here John," came the answer after a few seconds. "Drop Lestrade down to me but be as quiet as you can."

John turned halfway around and pulled Lestrade along beside him. _These vents might not be tall but thank God they are wide,_ he thought as he pulled the inspector over to the hatch as quietly as he could.

"Alright he's right here, are you ready to catch?" John whispered, hoping it wasn't too far of a drop.

"Yes I'm right below you. Lower him down." Sherlock whispered up.

John began to lower him down through the hole, feet first, and with a word from Sherlock he let him drop the rest of the way. After a second he heard a soft grunt and no crash so he assumed Sherlock had caught him and they were both safe.

"Ok John, your turn." Sherlock's disembodied voice floated up to him from below. Without a moment's hesitation he swung his legs over the edge and slipped off with complete confidence that Sherlock would not let him hit the ground. John fell through open air for less than a second before strong arms wrapped around his chest under his arms and broke his fall. Sherlock let out a soft grunt and John's feet hit the floor with a thud. John cringed as he heard the sound echo in the dark room they were standing in and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a cough and a rustle emanating less than two feet away from him to his right.

"Wha-"

Sherlock slapped his hand over his mouth and stood stock still. John shut up immediately and nodded his head to convey his compliance. The hand was cautiously removed from his mouth and Sherlock grabbed his hand.

"I've got Lestrade, follow me and be quiet." He whispered as he pulled John along behind him. After a moment of clumsily stumbling around the dark room John stopped and reached inside his pocket.

"This is ridiculous, I can't see a bloody thing." He stated with frustration as he pulled out his flashlight and turned it on.

"No John don't!" Sherlock whispered urgently but it was too late, the room was flooded with a white light to reveal several bunks pressed close to the walls with guards lying on top of them, fast asleep.

John stood in shock as Sherlock snatched the flashlight out of his hand and switched it off. They waited tensely to see if the light had disturbed any of the sleeping men and when all they heard was a few soft coughs and a little rustling they let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"The barracks?! You lead us into the _barracks_?!" John hissed softly to Sherlock as he continued to pull him along.

"Yes. This is the last place they will come looking for us so we should be momentarily safe if you don't pull another stunt like that one." He whispered back.

"But I thought we were trying to get _out_ of this place!"

"We are! Think John, what do most barracks have?"

John shrugged, "I don't know, a bathroom?"

"No John, an _emergency exit_. With so many people stuffed into one room there would have to be an emergency exit in case of a fire. We know that this building used to be a factory of some kind so they would need to put one in for liability reasons if nothing else." Sherlock explained in hushed whispers. "Now be quiet, we don't want to wake anyone up."

They continued their slow search for the exit and after what seemed like an eternity they finally bumped up against the far wall of the room.

"Look, Sherlock, I can see one huge problem with this plan." John whispered as they began to work their way along the wall in search of the door.

"Oh? And what is that?"

"Well when we finally do find this door won't the fire alarm go off when we open it?"

"Most likely yes. That is exactly what I am hoping happens. Of course they might have disabled it but let's hope that's not the case."

"But," John started, confused, "that will just wake them all up."

"Yes but what do fire alarms do besides make lots if noise? Really John you have gotten slow while I was away." He replied with a hint of disappointment in his mocking tone.

"Ah," John whispered, finally understanding the detective's reasoning. "The fire alarm will automatically call the police."

"Exactly. They will crowd around this building fast. I believe that our friends here will realize this and try to get out as quickly as possible, leaving us alone." Sherlock whispered back, "Now do please shut up. I'm trying to find the door."

Just as he finished saying that Sherlock's slim fingers brushed up against the cold smooth surface of a doorknob. He squeezed John's hand to let him know he had found it and in one fluid motion turned the knob and ripped the door open.

Sirens blared and many of the sleeping guards bloated upright so fast those heads hit either the ceiling or the bunk above them. But by that time Sherlock, John, and the unconscious Lestrade had already made it out the door and were running as fast as their injured legs would allow.

* * *

John crouched, his leg throbbing, behind the think line of trees. Sherlock sat next to him, panting. It hadn't been easy but they had somehow managed to get away without being followed.

"I have to admit," John panted, "that plan of yours worked like a charm."

"Of course it did," Sherlock responded, "what else did you expect? My plans always work!"

"Yeah right, I know your plans can get pretty elaborate and crazy but I don't think getting captured when you first came to rescue me was part of some brilliant scheme." He said mockingly.

"Of course it was, I had the whole situation under control!" Sherlock responded with mock exasperation.

John just shook his head and laughed and Sherlock soon joined in.

"You haven't changed a bit." John said as soon as he was able to stop chuckling and had gotten his breath back. He looked up at Sherlock with a sad smile on his face and saw the same expression mirrored on his. John didn't know what made him do it, maybe it was just the relief of getting out alive, but he reached up and pulled Sherlock into a hug. _He had come for him and he had saved him_.

John felt Sherlock stiffen in surprise and John finally seemed realized who it was he had just embraced. Feeling foolish he started to pull back in embarrassment when he felt the detective's long slim arms wrap around him and pull him close.

"You're alright. Oh God you're alright," Sherlock mumbled into John's shoulder. "I didn't think- I wasn't sure- thank God you're alright."

"I'm fine, thanks to you." John mumbled back. It was time to say it, he needed to say it. "Sherlock," He began nervously, "I love you."

There, it was done, he had said it. Now he only hoped that Sherlock would react in kind. There was a moment of stunned silence from the consulting detective and John began to worry that he had made a mistake. "Sherlock I didn't-"

"John, I love you too." Sherlock said softly.

Relief. John closed his eyes and buried his face into Sherlock's shoulder. Neither of them could say how long they sat there in their silent embrace, but soon, too soon, they heard the screech of tires and the sound of blaring sirens coming from the road.

* * *

John's leg burned like fire as he and Sherlock stood, side by side, as a police officer took Lestrade away on a stretcher. He was bruised, scraped, cut, and beat up all around but for the moment he felt fine, Sherlock was here next to him and they were safe, that was all that mattered.

In fact he would go so far as to even say he was happy. Actually he was more than happy, he was ecstatic, as he felt Sherlock's long slim fingers interlock with his. John looked up at Sherlock with joy written on every inch of his face. "I love you." He whispered to him. It felt so good to say it.

"I love you too, John. I always have and I always will." Sherlock whispered back as he began to lean in closer to his doctor.

John smiled and went up on his tiptoes, why did he have to be so freaking tall? All thoughts vanished from his mind, however, when he finally pressed his lips to Sherlock's. The contact sent electricity through his veins, he felt so alive. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and he felt Sherlock slip his around his waist. Another jolt of electricity surged through him but this time it was much stronger. So strong in fact that it caused him to gasp and pull away slightly from Sherlock's warm embrace. The taller looked down at him with concern.

"Are you ok John? You look pale. Was that too much?"

The worry and nervousness that Sherlock was expressing about if he was moving too fast was so absurd and out of character for him that it caused John to explode into a fit of giggles.

"No you're fine, Sherlock." He managed to say through his laugher. "I'm perfectly alright."

Sherlock smiled at that and bent down to kiss him again right as another surge rushed through John's nerves. He let out a yell of pain and slumped forward into Sherlock's comforting arms.

"John! John what's wrong?!"

"I don't-" he gasped "I don't know." It felt like his whole body was being burned from the inside out. His blood was replaced with a raging fire and his vision was going black. Sherlock gripped his wrist and his eyes widened when he felt his pulse racing.

"Doctor! Do we have any doctors here? We need a medic!" Sherlock screamed at the police force around him. "John, John hold on. Just hold on you are going to be ok."

"What- AHHHH!" He screamed as one last surge, worse than all the others before combined ripped through him. The last thing he saw was Sherlock's panicked face when his vision went white.


	17. The Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright these are the last two! I shall say my thank you's now so you can read the rest in peace :)
> 
> THANK YOU! A huge thank you to everyone who has read this story and left a comment! This has been so fun to write and it has been a wonderful first experience as a writer for me! When I started this I thought it was only going to be a short 2 or 3 chapter fanfic but thanks to all of your positive encouragement I wrote more and it turned into this beautiful thing! I couldn't have done it without you :) This my have been my first fanfic, but it most certainly wont be my last. So thank you all so so so much and enjoy! :D (please don't hate me for this...)

_Beep beep beep beep_

"We've got it! We've got a pulse! He's come back!"

John opened his eyes and was momentarily blinded by a bright white light. He blinked and was shocked to observe many different people standing around him, watching him. For an instant he was too shocked to speak, the room he was in looked exactly like the cell he was in held captive in, from the bare walls to the counter and the sink; he was even currently lying on a flat slab of some kind. He tried to move and found that he was strapped to the table. _No no no no no,_ he thought desperately, _this cannot be happening again_.

Understandably he began to panic. "Who are you?!" He screamed at the mysterious people surrounding him as he thrashed against the straps holding him down. "Where am I?! Let me go!"

"Calm down Mr. Watson, you are quite safe," said a soothing voice next to his ear.

"Safe? I don't think so!" He screamed back, now thrashing so hard the whole table was rocking. "Who are you and what have you done to Sherlock?!"

"I think you should bring her in, maybe she can calm him down." Said another soft voice coming from one of the other mysterious people clustered around him. He wasn't really paying attention anymore; he was just focused on escaping as fast as he could and finding Sherlock. He was so focused on thrashing around that he didn't even notice the mob of people leave and one small, frail person enter until she put her hand on his arm.

John stopped moving and angrily turned to face the new intruder. "Don't you touch me-"

"You're fine, dreary." Mrs. Hudson said in a soft soothing voice. "Don't you worry; those wonderful doctors brought you back. You're safe."

John had gone stock still. How the hell was Mrs. Hudson, of all people, here?

"Mrs. Hudson, you need to get out of here right now before they see you, or you'll end up like me! You need to get out!" He pressured her worryingly. She needed to get out; Mrs. Hudson is the last person he wanted to see hurt and tortured.

"John whatever are you talking about? Why do I need to leave?" She asked him in confusion. What was going on? How did she not know the danger she was in?

"I don't want them to hurt you, please, you need to leave!" John begged her in a panic; he started to pull against his restraints again.

"Oh no sweetie, they won't hurt me." Mrs. Hudson laughed, "Hospitals are places of healing not harming."

John stopped moving. A hospital? He was in a hospital? But now that Mrs. Hudson had said that he could see some distinct differences between this room and his old cell. The walls were much cleaner and were made of an off white plaster instead of concrete and the entire place was much nicer, and the "slab" he thought he was strapped to was actually a bed, the restraints had been his sheets and a single strap across his chest to prevent him from sitting up. He had an IV in his arm and there was a heart monitor beeping happily away to his right.

"What- what happened?" He asked calmly after he had realized that he was not in any immediate danger.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes filled with tears, "We almost lost you. The doctors said that you took some kind of medication, a pill I think they said, and it almost killed you. If we hadn't gotten you here as fast as we did then you'd most certainly be dead."

"How long ago was that?" He asked nervously. How was this possible? After he took the pill Sherlock came back and he was fine...

"About a week dear," she said with a sniffle.

He sat in stunned silence. Was he really unconscious for a week? "Is Sylvia here? Is she ok?" He asked with concern.

Mrs. Hudson looked confused, "Sylvia? Oh you mean Dr. Amanda Sylvia. Yes she is perfectly all right; she was the one taking care of you for the most part. Lovely woman."

More silence followed this explanation. "Where's Sherlock then? I need to talk to him." He finally said.

"Oh no, John, I'm so sorry, they said this might happen. When you took that pill they put you right on medication that was keeping you alive," she gestured at his IV, "it put you into a kind-of comma state until they could fix you up completely. One if the side effects of the medicine is vivid dreams that are influenced by your environment... Sherlock is dead honey. He has been for months."

Now she did start crying. Tears spilled down her face and she looked at him with sympathy.

"No, but, that's not possible." John started, not believing that all the events of the past four days had been a dream. "Sherlock's fine he's alive. I met him, he saved me. We-" _kissed_ he finished in his head. Certainly that couldn't have been a dream.

"I'm so sorry John, but none of that happened. I've been with you this whole time."

"But that was the whole reason I took it, the pill. To get away, I wasn't needed, I wasn't wanted. Without him I am nothing." John said in despair, tears slipping down his face.

"No don't say that dear! Of course you're wanted!" She said comfortingly as she grabbed his hand and held it tight.

"But I'm not though, am I?" He said sluggishly. It was all making sense now. He knew that Sherlock loving him was too good to be true. He felt his heart start to slow and his breathing grow irregular and choppy.

"Oh Mrs. Hudson, there were so many things I wanted to say, so many things I _still_ want to say, but I never said them. I regret it so much." Tears were flowing down his face and the heart monitor started beeping slower and slower.

_Beep, beep, beep, beep_

"I loved him Mrs. Hudson. I loved him and I never told him. He died without ever knowing the truth. He will never know why I was always willing to put my life on the line for him or why I was always so jealous when he was around that Adler woman. He will never know why I put up with all his ridiculous experiments or why I would always try to be right by his side, ready for him to lean on whenever he needed extra strength. Because even though he thought he was invincible I knew he had limits. I would try and make him eat, I would try to show him how amazing he really was, but it wasn't enough in the end was it? He felt alone and wrong when he climbed up onto that rooftop and he killed himself for it. Just maybe if I had told him how much he meant to me then maybe he wouldn't have gone to such drastic measures. I could have prevented this; I could have saved him like he saved me. That's why I took the pill Mrs. Hudson, I failed him. I failed him and without him I am nothing. My other half is missing and I can't live like this any longer. I thought that if he wasn't going to come back to me, then I was going to him."

"Oh John..." She whimpered as she squeezed his hand tighter still. "It wasn't you fault, it wasn't anyone's. Don't give up John, there's always hope."

He shook his head; the heart monitor was beeping slower and slower.

_Beep.. Beep.. Beep.. Beep.._

Blackness was starting to creep into the edge of his vision and he felt light-headed. He knew the signs, he knew the symptoms, he was a doctor after all. He was dying, his body was shutting down, and he couldn't be happier about it.

He squeezed Mrs. Hudson's hand back and whispered to her, "I already have... Thank you for everything Mrs. Hudson, you were always like a second mother to me."

"No John don't give up!" She yelled as she finally seemed to notice the slow heart monitor. "Doctor hurry! He's dying again!"

John heard hurried footsteps approach him and felt someone shake his shoulder. He didn't care anymore, the only thing he was aware of was the slow beeping of the monitor and how he was about to see Sherlock again for the first time in 7 months. The thought brought him such joy that he smiled through his tears.

_Beep... Beep... Beep..._

John's body jerked and spasmed as the defibrillators were placed on his chest again as they attempted to shock his heart back into beating. He didn't feel a thing. It was like he was floating outside his body and the things happening to him he was just watching happen to someone else.

_Beep... Beep..._

He heard Mrs. Hudson sobbing and calling his name. He saw the doctors stop and go to comfort her as they realized there was no saving him, he was too determined to die.

 _Sherlock, I'm coming back to you_. He thought happily as he remembered the last thing he saw in his dream, Sherlock's face. He smiled and closed his eyes, letting the darkness consume him.

_Beep... Beep... Beeeeeeeppp..._


	18. The Reunion

_"How would you describe me John? Resourceful, dynamic? Enigmatic?"_

_"Late."_

_-Sherlock and John, The Blind Banker_

* * *

A small stooping figure stood silhouetted against a blood-red sky as soft sobs racked her body. She sniffed, bent down, and placed two bouquets of white roses on the ground by her feet, one in each side of her. She let out a final cry and turned away in a hurry. She almost ran from the site at which she had been standing and was soon out of sight of the tall, lean man hiding behind the tree.

He wanted to run to her, to comfort her, but he knew his presence would not be wanted. Guilt pulled at his posture and he stood less tall and less proud than before. Much of the arrogance that had once filled his features had been washed away in the past three years. He was a new man. When he had been away all he had been able to think about was his partner in crime, his doctor. _I guess the saying is true,_ he thought sadly, _you don't realize what you have until it's gone._

As soon as he had made sure Mrs. Hudson was gone he stepped out from his shadowy hideout and slowly walked towards the spot where she had been standing. He reached down and picked up the bouquet on the right. He ran his slim fingers over the cold, smooth surface of the gravestone, his gravestone, that the flowers had been lying in front of. He let his hand drop and sighed. Today would have been the day, the day he would have returned after three years. He had been looking forward to today for years and now, but he had come home only to find that his best friend, his only friend, had passed away in his absence. After doing some investigating, however, he had discovered that John H. Watson had not only passed away, but had committed suicide.

Now he finally did look over at the simple gray gravestone that was placed to the left of his. _In loving memory of Dr. John H. Watson, he saved many lives in more ways than one._

With some more snooping and investigating he had found that his big brother, Mycroft, had been the one to suggest that the last phrase be engraved in the stone. Mycroft had worked out his feelings for John a long time ago but had, respectfully, kept the information to himself.

He stepped over so that he now stood directly in front of his best friend's grave and placed his hand on the top. He hung his head and let the tears he had been holding back fall to the ground at his feet.

"John," he started, "John I am so, so sorry." He had watched as John had given a speech like this to his grave, but he had never dreamt that he would be doing the same thing to John's only three short years later.

"I had never imagined that this would affect you so much. I knew you would be hurt, you had to be in order for me to convince everyone of my death, but I never thought I would cause you so much pain." He stopped for a breath and sobbed through his teeth. He had never thought it would be this hard to say goodbye.

"I didn't know, I just didn't. I admit it, the great Sherlock Holmes was wrong." He laughed softly through his tears and closed his eyes. He had never laughed much before John came.

"That saying," he gestured limply to the engraving, "it's true, 100 percent. You saved me John, completely and totally saved me. Before you wandered into that laboratory looking for a flat mate I was in an awful state, just ask Mycroft. I would lock myself away for months and not see or speak to anyone. I never ate, I rarely slept, and I was becoming more and more depressed by the day. Even I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't met you." He shivered at the memory of those dark days.

"You meant everything to me John, I know I never told you but you did. And I never told you why." He sucked in a breath, it was now or never.

"John I loved you. I know it doesn't matter now but I loved you. I loved you and I'm sorry, now there's two things you don't usually hear me say." He smiled sadly and stood up. Wiping the tears from his face he took one last long look at the grave and turned away. He slowly walked back out of the graveyard and knew in his heart that he wouldn't come back.

* * *

That night he visited Mycroft which was an oddity in its self. He explained himself to him and told him what he needed. His older brother had refused. He had kept at it though and only after actually begging him did his brother concede.

* * *

He stood solemnly as the cool wind ruffled his hair and he wrapped his scarf around his neck a little tighter. This very building was where his whole life had changed forever, and this very spot is where it all came crashing down, quite literally. He knew that what he was about to do was stupid and illogical but for the first time he didn't care. Right now he was going to let his emotions rule his mind and this was where it had led him. He reached into his pocket and closed his fist around a small glass object. He took a deep breath and pulled out a tiny glass jar. Mycroft had told him how John had done it and knowing had only made him feel guiltier. He knew it was stupid of him to think it was all his fault but he felt that if only he hadn't kept that pill then John might still be alive. He sighed again and unscrewed the cap, Mycroft had been the one who saw John take the pill and had sent an ambulance over straight away. Unfortunately there was no stopping the deadly poison that had already entered John's body. It was this that he was hoping to accomplish now.

He poured the small pill into his hand and held it up. This is what he had begged Mycroft for, he wanted to go the same way John did. Mycroft had also agreed to help him in the disposal of his body. As soon as the poison had taken full effect and he had passed away Mycroft was to send a group of men up here and, under the cover of darkness, take his body away back to the graveyard. There they would dig up his empty coffin and deposit him inside. That way he really would be buried next to John. He hadn't told anyone he was alive yet so this time no one would be hurt when he died. The only thing that would be different was that there would now be a real body under the gravestone marked Sherlock Holmes.

The lonely man smiled to himself and knew it was time. He glanced around himself one more final time, and took the pill. Almost immediately he felt the poison take effect and he fell to the ground, clutching his throat. He coughed and wheezed, but he hardly seemed to feel it, he was too engrossed in his own thoughts. Mycroft had also told him everything John had said to Mrs. Hudson when he was dying and he smiled as he choked. John had taken the pill to come back to him, just too see his face again. John had loved him. John had loved him and that was all that mattered, because-

"John, I love you too." He sputtered.

They were the famous last words of the great consulting detective.

END


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